Andy Sachs (Hathaway) is an aspiring journalist who takes a job at Runway, a New York fashion magazine, as an assistant to its powerful and much-feared editor, Miranda Priestly (Streep). But as she tries to get ahead in fashion and please Miranda, Andy finds her own values at risk.
Meryl Streep’s dramatic résumé is such that it’s easy to forget what a sublime comedic performer she really is. It’s a tribute to her talent that she takes a character who could have been played as a two-dimensional cartoon – the ice queen power bitch from Hell – and transforms her into the unlikely sympathetic heart of this fun, frothy and surprisingly tame comedy.
Drawn from novelist Lauren Weisberger’s not-so-well disguised “alleged” indictment of her former boss, Vogue editor Anna Wintour (who, magnificently, attended the premiere wearing Prada), this risked resembling another whiny, jealous skewering of the fashion industry. Anne Hathaway depicts the wide-eyed, plaid-draped idealist cast into the den of fashionista wolves, acting as the audience’s guide through the supposedly superficial whims of haute couture. But a perverse, and relieving, thing happens: drab Andy becomes the target of the barbs herself, and the film thankfully avoids the easy, tired stereotypes of the fashion industry as shallow, image-obsessed shills.
That’s where Streep excels. Her Miranda Priestly is an arch villainess in fur, and yet the character is played as an enigma with an intriguing personal dimension. If Hathaway’s Andy drives the pedestrian narrative – idealistic girl learns the value of staying true to herself and her “real” friends; snore – then Streep is the movie’s soul; all the more fascinating for her refusal to let personal emotions interfere with her cut-throat instincts for survival. Mocking Andy’s ungrateful down-to-earth morals, Streep makes the brittle Priestly earn our respect; and maybe even our love.
Prada isn’t satire; its comedy is wry, observational, and mostly pro-fashion rather than Zoolander-broad (Miranda’s explanation of how Andy winds up with a hideous sweater is priceless). And, as things wander towards the inevitable moral tedium, Andy’s decision to appease her sad sack, self-righteous and sloppily dressed boyfriend at least proves one thing: the Devil really wears Gap.
Drawn from novelist Lauren Weisberger’s not-so-well disguised “alleged” indictment of her former boss, Vogue editor Anna Wintour (who, magnificently, attended the premiere wearing Prada), this risked resembling another whiny, jealous skewering of the fashion industry. Anne Hathaway depicts the wide-eyed, plaid-draped idealist cast into the den of fashionista wolves, acting as the audience’s guide through the supposedly superficial whims of haute couture. But a perverse, and relieving, thing happens: drab Andy becomes the target of the barbs herself, and the film thankfully avoids the easy, tired stereotypes of the fashion industry as shallow, image-obsessed shills.
That’s where Streep excels. Her Miranda Priestly is an arch villainess in fur, and yet the character is played as an enigma with an intriguing personal dimension. If Hathaway’s Andy drives the pedestrian narrative – idealistic girl learns the value of staying true to herself and her “real” friends; snore – then Streep is the movie’s soul; all the more fascinating for her refusal to let personal emotions interfere with her cut-throat instincts for survival. Mocking Andy’s ungrateful down-to-earth morals, Streep makes the brittle Priestly earn our respect; and maybe even our love.
Prada isn’t satire; its comedy is wry, observational, and mostly pro-fashion rather than Zoolander-broad (Miranda’s explanation of how Andy winds up with a hideous sweater is priceless). And, as things wander towards the inevitable moral tedium, Andy’s decision to appease her sad sack, self-righteous and sloppily dressed boyfriend at least proves one thing: the Devil really wears Gap.
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