Sympathy for the Devil

Rating: 9/10 (19 July 2006)

It probably -- and most likely -- began as one of those tell-all books disguised as chick-lit that exposed "the ugly, insensitive, cruel side of fashion." After reading it last night, this was the impression I got, because as a story, it never goes anywhere. It's always on this never-ending one-note that is closer to THE DISCREET CHARM OF THE BOURGEOISIE in its nightmarish, surrealistic tone than a real story about the new assistant and her boss from hell. Instead that where the main character never getting to eat dinner, in the book, she never gets to have a life while she's involved in the hellish world of haute couture.
Not that there's anything wrong with writing tell-all books and then fictionalizing names, events, places, and the like. It's been done most notably by Christina Crawford after her Mother died and we know what kind of an exaggerated camp classic was borne out of that book. However, the great thing about film as a media of compressing and reshaping stories is that it can take the bare essence of a book's soul -- the characters that make the most impact -- and reconfigure them to a new story that while it bears little to no resemblance from its print version will greatly expound on the themes present there. Just look at what came out of a little-known story called "The Birds," for example. And no one is complaining.
Gone from the movie is the excessively distorted tone that lingers within the pages of the novel. Such a move is best in order to tell a balanced story. In is the exploration of Miranda Priestly's character, who in the book was a complete caricature thought out of what seems to be the angry mind of an ex-employee, and here is shown to be have frightening depth of character and interestingly, a character that ignites the screen with her icy stares and perfect composure. Expanded from his original two over-the-top scenes is the character of Nigel who in the book was a shrieking muscle queen with a penchant for female attire (catsuit, anyone?) and speaking in capital letters. Here, he's presented as more subdued, closer to an emasculated auntie encased in Stanley Tucci's dapper persona, but no less essential to the story. And mercifully, chopped-up are sub-plots involving Andy Sachs' friends and family who in the book have their own lives and story lines and interfere a bit much with the whole story, and even then their presence could have been reduced a little more, but such is the case with having so many characters that do little to advance a plot -- or in some cases, as in Lily (in the book), force events.
In any case, THE DEVIL WEARS PRADA is, as a movie (and using fashion lingo), nearly flawless despite such minor hang ups. Because it doesn't intend to tread risky ground in presenting an edgier story of Andy Sachs' rite of passage from frumpy wannabe reporter to an emotionally empty glamazon capable of hurting those around her with her total involvement in work (and thereby assuring her role as immediate successor to Miranda Priestly), it veers closer to the likes of FUNNY FACE. Even then, it's immensely enjoyable. Meryl Streep alone is the sole reason to watch the movie: whenever she is on screen, which is not enough, she simply ignites, especially in her character's orchestrated entrance into the movie -- one that is so pregnant in anticipation and tension that when she does open the doors to "Runway" and begins softly barking orders to a frazzled Emily Blunt, it almost comes as a relief of sheer pressure, even though she's only begun her reign of terror. She later has a scene where she succinctly cuts a snickering Hathaway down to size as she criticizes her "cerulean" misshapen sweater which is a way to show not only how that sweater came to her hands, but to have Hathaway show some respect to an apparently shallow world. If the intent was to make her a monster, the film succeeds: but the film's Miranda Priestly is different from the book. Streep's Priestly never overacts as much as she commands presence as well as sheer terror from anyone dumb enough to be within striking distance. Streep truly makes Miranda Priestly a snake (a reference to the book). Hers is the type that has accepted her role as such, has no intentions of backing down, and withholds a carefully hidden layer buried well underneath any prying eyes and only exposes itself at a crucial moment when her divorce becomes a reality. In short, she is empty on the outside, and tragically empty on the in.
Anne Hathaway stars as Andy Sachs, and like every straight character, she has little to do but to react and follow suit. Because the actors who surround her -- Emily Blunt and Stanley Tucci -- have stronger material to work with as they play people who have allowed the external take a stranglehold on their own identities and only rarely show glimpses of humanity (essentially, they are clones of their boss, but one complaint -- when will Hollywood have a gay character who has his own life and is not the sexless auntie who is every straight girl's best friend? Come on already.), they register more strongly. On the other hand, neither the book Andy nor the movie Andy evolve enough. Hathaway plays her straightforward, which is okay because this is what she is required to do as per the screenplay. Everyone else is fairly okay, but in essence, the movie is really the quartet of Hathaway, Blunt, Tucci, and overseeing them all, the magnificent Streep.