The Devil In the Details
Film Review of “The Devil Wears Prada”
By Richard Campbell

Meryl Streep magically conjures up Miranda Priestly an elusively ruthless type A personality fashion editor of Runway Magazine in “The Devil Wears Prada”, a clever comic adaptation of the novel, directed by David Frankel, known for his work on “Sex In The City.” With this nuanced performance of a fashion dictator, Streep has secured herself a place in the coming Oscar nominations, despite the weaknesses of the script. She pulls out all the stops of sense memory to reveal the cold heart beneath silver white cropped hair, the petulant smirks, disdainful side long glances, and occasional inner hurt eyes-of a women who ruthlessly dominates everyone around her. Starting with the pretty, young Andrea Sachs played by Ann Hathaway. Andrea, aka Andy is trapped in a Cinderella story with Miranda-the demanding boss from hell. For sheer familiarity, it is an identifiable predicament of the modern day office worker- wrapped in a velvety movie pastiche for the voracious consumers of Vogue.

Andy lands cheap prep dressed in the city searching for a life of integrity as a journalist fighting for the underclass. Desiring to eventually scribe for The New Yorker, she comes with ivy league credentials, prior editorial work, and a concerned father’s hand out, which surprise, surprise, are not enough to procure her a job as a journalist in New York City. Though she settles on being a receptionist for Miranda at Runway, apparently a job that “thousands of women would kill for”, from the very first instant her bosses unrelenting commentary ensues. To add insult to injury, Emily, the young women immediately above her on the food chain, is not much nicer. During her crying scene for being an incompetent dud and the butt of fashion jokes, Andy enlists the help of the caustically sympathetic gay art director Nigel, (Stan Tucci) and predictably begins to morph into one of the Prada set to prove her self worth.

Beginning with this paper thin self-betrayal, Andy abandons her writer ‘s identity, enwraps herself in the glam, ignores her friends, and even blows off her boy friend’s birthday party. What will be the next crisis for western world? Eventually she is pursued by a hot young writer, Christian Thompson, (Simon Baker) who uses his connections to save her job and dangle the chance for her to receive a by line at – you guessed it, The New Yorker. Of course, in order to succeed Andy runs the gauntlet to the end, from impossible assignments to cell phone chaos, bad diet jokes, dirty linen, and improbable accidents; becoming more glamorous and vulnerable as each scene passes. She is on the slippery slope now, ready to sell her soul for success, and the triteness of this story line is covered well by dazzling wardrobes, great original music by Theodore Shapiro, very clever camera work by Florian Ballhaus, and some pretty respectable acting.

Hathaway does not completely mesmerize us with her portrayal, but she skillfully shows intimate transformations that are reflected in her character’s fashion metamorphosis. Clearly lessons from Streep on the inner dialogue have been valuable, as Hathaway poignantly comes upon the stranger to herself in a large mirror. It is obvious that though the narcissistic writer Christian Thompson may tempt her, Andy’s quiet, sensitive sous chef boyfriend Nate will win out in the end. Bakers’ skill at playing the witty golden boy with something to hide allows us to read him for what he is- a snake. Nate, played fine casual by Adrian Grenier, cuts a stunning likeness to Michelangelo’s David, and does not have to be convincing, because his entrancing cool blue eyes make love to the camera from every direction. Whatever they dropped of him on the cutting room floor to make this film PG, left women (and perhaps some men) in our theatre pinning for more.

The one two punches of stellar acting by Meryl Streep and Stan Tucci, the latter in the role of gallery slave master, give the younger actors something to strive for. Nigel initiates Andy into the world of couture and cruelty, he lives and dies upon every utterance out of Miranda’s mouth, and explains the fashion world to her in direct terms. Here Tucci is a master, his quirky little expressions drift across his face as comical words of fashion wisdom presume to educate us as well. I begin to realize the film is more about possessing the audiences minds through visual imagery. Though there is some interest in Andy’s farcical melodrama, the focus of the film is the hidden role of the art director, buttressed with clever costuming and editing. The films visual development parallels all the work that goes into making the fashion industry one grand illusion.

Script wise this film posits a slick, simplistic, psychological story line, but heads into the realm of the masterful when the camera starts rolling. Breaking out with cameo roles reminiscent of Robert Altman’s “The Player”, the snippet of the fashion editor’s world we see is not simply ruthless, but luxuriously libidinal in it’s allure. Contrasted with the bustle of city streets, lavish editorial office interiors, hotels and restaurants, from New York to Paris we are treated to a fantasy world of the beautiful people so chic, satirizing itself at one moment, and asking to be taken earnestly the next. The camera as art director presents us with the real lead character: the quest by all to possess the power of beauty. The pervasive portraits of ulterior motives, prissy one up-man-ships, and clever plot reversals cannot bring “The Devil Wears Prada” down to the cliché’s upon which it seemingly rests. It’s a movie designed for aspiring models, and would be art directors- a dessert without the calories, revealing that everything upon the surface of success may not be worth acquiring, especially when it is acquired at the expense of one’s own identity.