The Devil Wears Prada David Frankel

The devil, in this adaptation of Lauren Weisberger’s best-selling chick-lit novel of the same name, is Miranda Priestly, the omnipotent, leggy, silver-haired editor-in-chief of Runway, a high-end fashion tome transparently based on American mag Vogue and its infamous real life editor Anna Wintour. Anne Hathaway plays Andy, who, fresh out of university and trying to become a journalist, takes a job as Miranda’s assistant at Runway, not knowing anything about the magazine or her boss’ notoriety in the fashion world as a shrewd, unforgiving and unpredictable control freak/workaholic. Right away we are supposed to suspend our disbelief and view Hathaway’s character as the unattractive, clunky and, believe it or not, fat wannabe. Given that calling Hathaway’s arms twigs would be generous, this is somewhat difficult, but then, in the smooth, well-coiffed offices of Runway, with every women slinking down the halls in spiked thigh-high boots, I suppose anyone would feel frumpy. This doesn’t last long though, as Andy realises that in order to gain even a smidgeon of respect from Miranda, she has to dress and look the part, in addition to doing ridiculous things like running all over town to acquire the unpublished manuscript of the latest Harry Potter book for Miranda’s daughters. So, with the help of Stanley Tucci’s well-heeled fashion director Nigel, Andy transforms overnight into a beautiful, blow-dried, Chanel-wearing fashionista. And if this is what you came to see, then come and get it, because the film is filled with shot after shot of haute couture from around the globe. The film’s other big strength is Meryl Streep, whose portrayal of Miranda Priestly is delivered with such subtle force that she even manages to convince us of humanity and frailty. This is a decadent guilty pleasure and as Miranda whispers with exasperation, "that’s all.” (Fox)