The Devil Wears Prada

It is with the utmost exasperated honesty that I admit my absolute lack of knowledge or interest in the superficial glitter of fashion. At its best, the fashion world seems to offer an individual the chance to define him/herself through the look and style of their material appearance. At its worst, of course, an appearance dictated by the latest trend can degenerate into an outlet for pure vanity, creating in oneself an artificial sense of superiority within a world inhabited by bandwagon-ignorant heathens. As a celebrated employee of our local Fashion Bug, my sister has gamely taken the role of my personal stylist, supplying me with endless advice about my choice in clothes, which I repeatedly embrace with a mixture of scorn and gratefulness.

It was with this same exuberance that my sister whisked me to the latest chick-flick, The Devil Wears Prada, which bore the kind of premise that would send most males fleeing in desperate boredom toward their X-boxes. Based on Lauren Weisberger’s muckraking memoir about being the temporary assistant of formidable Vogue editor Anna Wintour, the story follows Weisberger’s alter-ego Andrea Sachs (Anne Hathaway) through the toils and tribulations of aiding a blatant Wintour-clone, fictional Runway editor Miranda Priestly (Meryl Streep).

A more appropriate title for the film may have been The Wintour of Our Discontent, although others may argue it to be merely Princess Diaries 3. This is because the film’s “rags to Pradas” formula is nearly identical to that of Hathaway’s film debut, the major box office success that partnered her with another screen legend (Julie Andrews), as she transformed from an awkward ugly duckling to a gorgeous Cinderella. Yet Hathaway is such a plucky charmer that she repeatedly manages to make this damned Hollywood silliness work.

As I found myself becoming unreasonably delighted watching her Andrea go through the predictable journey from dowdy college grad to radiant material girl, I actually began to contemplate the possibility of a continued “Hathaway Cinderella” franchise, pitting her alongside more of our finest actresses (it’s the dream role of any young actress). Imagine, Hathaway transforming into a Miss America contestant under the British supervision of Maggie Smith, or becoming a luminous Olympic Curling champion thanks to coach Judy Davis.

The only problem I (along with many moviegoers) seem to have with Hathaway is that she’s just way too beautiful to be passed off as ugly. Even when attempts were made to age her in Brokeback Mountain, she came off looking like a fresh-faced youth in a ridiculous platinum-blonde wig. Yet the neurotic humor and disarmingly sympathetic humanity she brings to the role far outshines the improbability of initially overlooking her inherent beauty.

Directed by HBO alum David Frankel, the film itself is breezily weightless, guaranteed to fascinate teens on the brink of entering the formidably corrupt ‘Real World.’ There is some nice support from Emily Blunt as Miranda’s first assistant, exuding the fierce determination of an army soldier, and Stanley Tucci as Runway’s fashion director, who lectures Hathaway on the artistic merit of fashion, while later brooding under his breath, “sometimes I can’t believe I talk about this crap all day.” The extravagant fashions and Paris locales will spellbind its young female target audience, while Meryl Streep will enrapture anyone craving a shade of substance within such a colorfully synthetic package.

Quite possibly the best actress of her generation, Streep creates another masterpiece of a performance with Miranda, a fashion editor so thoroughly intimidating that she can chill blood with the mere tensing of a facial muscle, or the hushed throwaway utterance of “That’s all” – a repeated catchphrase given such diverse meanings throughout, that it in itself should be studied in acting classes. Her delivery of a monologue tracing the faddish path of Hathaway’s seemingly shabby attire is exquisite, and she refuses to overplay the tragic nuances of her character, making them all the more resonant. The brilliant minimalism of Streep’s facial expressions is more entertaining than entire Hollywood releases; she single-handedly catapults this film to heights of hilarity it could never have reached otherwise – remaining instead as passable escapism.

If I were to analyze The Devil Wears Prada as an article of clothing, most likely one chosen for me by my sister, I would at first be repelled by its conformity to popular convention. Yet this stubborn misgiving would eventually deteriorate once I found that the apparel, surprisingly enough, simply looks good on me. No matter how unoriginal the film’s plot mechanics become, Streep makes them shine as if she was a million dollar model doing justice to a burlap sack. In the end, Prada’s success has nothing to do with the material it consists of, but who indeed is wearing it. That’s all.

Rating: ***1/2 (out of *****)