Cast almost salvages predictable script.

Rating: 6/10 (6 July 2006)

The Devil Wears Prada struck me much like the industry that provides its backdrop  pure surface, well promoted and unabashedly convinced of its own importance. If this was in fact the point of the piece, it is an absolute success. Otherwise, this highly-publicized film is painfully predictable and merely another incarnation of a plug-in script whose story arc has been traversed over and over . . . and over.
Let's see, it goes something like this; basically decent, idealistic, young (man/woman) goes to (New York/Chicago/Los Angeles/D.C.) to make his/her mark in (writing/business/music/acting/government) only to be temporarily seduced by the very environment/person they are the antithesis of, alienating his/her(boyfriend/girlfriend/family/friends/all of the above) in the process until he/she stumbles on to the revelation, "To thine own self be true." Devil is all of this. . . again. Only the trendy names being dropped have been updated for those who find that sort of thing significant enough to make them believe this is somehow a different story.
The characters, as written, are equally as plugged-in and predictable. The film is only watchable because of the efforts of three actors. Streep is superb -- as always -- as Miranda Priestly, the self-absorbed, career-obsessed and patently unpleasant publishing mogul. Every incredulous look and pursed lip is right on the mark. She is not however, showing us anything we haven't been shown before  either about her acting or about women at the top. Even Miranda's obligatory "vulnerability scene" is thin and comes too late in the film to matter. By the time we witness what angst she is capable of, we really don't care. We are left with less a feeling of empathy than a sense of justice. (If you want to see her be truly chilling and ruthless, check out the remake of Mancherian Candidate.)
Likewise, Emily Blunt, as Miranda's first assistant, does a wonderful job as an insecure, over compensating slave to someone else's expectation. Her portrayal is cattily on target and provides the requisite foil to our heroine's wide-eyed innocence. Performance-wise this is commendable, but it leaves the audience with next to nothing to like about her character. The dilemma here is that the film presents her (as well as the character of Miranda) in such a way that we have this nagging feeling maybe we are supposed to like her in some way  and yet, we don't. This creates even more of a dilemma later on when Andrea  our supposedly intelligent, perceptive and grounded protagonist, played forgettably by Anne Hathaway-- makes attempts to befriend these two soulless women. Many are left to perceive her gestures as a weak and irritating need to be liked rather than any real nobility of character.
The one true bright spot of the film is Stanley Tucci, as Nigel, who once again seems to infuse a refreshing dimension and humanity to a character that was probably not written that way. He continues to amaze.
Cinematically, The Devil was a small-screen script seemingly shot for the small screen. It no doubt will look stunning when it reaches HBO to be embraced by all those starving fans of Sex in the City and many others who believe that haute couture must surely be the apex of man's cultural accomplishments and that watching insensitive, catty women snipe at each other is actually entertaining.
Billed as a "comedy/drama," the film was never very touching and only mildly amusing. There were no new insights or honest laughs -- the kind you share with friends about the mutually-experienced absurdities of life. No. The audience responses were more like those sophisticated, obligatory snickers that you exchange over lattes with people you don't really know that well -- and are reasonably certain you wouldn't want to spend time with again.