And why not? Frankel, who directed many episodes of Sex and the City (and who is a son of Max Frankel, a former executive editor of the New York Times), knows just how to infuse a spectacle of refinement and exclusivity with a feeling of democratic good cheer. He and McKenna also know how to mock without sneering, and how to acknowledge that fashion is a serious business without taking it too seriously.
Several carefully staged, pointedly written scenes defend Priestly on feminist grounds. Other moments reveal her vulnerability, and she occasionally takes time from her daily routine of spreading fear and anxiety wherever she goes to extend meaningful and sympathetic glances in Andy's direction. She also explains that while her kingdom of couture may seem like a shallow and trivial place, it is also a domain where power, money and art commingle to influence the choices and aspirations of women everywhere.
Andy may think that her drab blue cable-knit sweater is an emblem of virtue, a sign that she can't be bothered with the superficial obsessions that drive Runway, but Miranda insists otherwise, and the movie supports her view. Further tributes to Priestly's genius — and to the glorious tradition of journalism she represents — are offered by Nigel (Stanley Tucci), her loyal lieutenant, who becomes Andy's friend and protector.
That awful sweater is soon replaced by a series of glorious ensembles presented in one of many swirling, breathless montage sequences, all of which drive home the point that fabulous clothes are, well, fabulous. And who will argue? A few people try, notably Andy's boyfriend, Nate (Adrian Grenier), an aspiring chef who mopes into view every now and then to remind her that she's losing sight of the things that really matter. Tell it to Gourmet, pal.
Grenier, who effortlessly incarnates the shallow hedonism of the celebrity culture every Sunday night on Entourage, is maybe not the best guy to be giving lectures about the ultimate hollowness of fashion and fame. And in any case Nate doesn't seem to mind the sexy lingerie that Andy brings home from the office.
The scenes in which Andy is warned that she is straying from her down-to-earth, nice-girl values are flimsy to the point of insincerity. And Hathaway, even made over with shiny bangs, flawless makeup and toe-squeezing footwear, is nowhere near as interesting to watch as Tucci, who has never been better, or Streep, whose perfectionism has rarely seemed so apt. Nor, for that matter, does Hathaway hold the screen against Emily Blunt, the British actress (My Summer of Love) whose portrayal of Emily, Miranda's senior minion and Andy's office rival, is a minor tour de force of smiling hostility.
Hathaway shakes off her blandness only toward the end, when, in a climactic trip to Paris, Andy is drawn perilously close to her boss's chilly flame, and where her intermittent flirtation with a rakish magazine writer (Simon Baker) gathers steam. But for most of the movie Andy is a cipher, whose function is to bring us closer to Priestly, the devil we are, after all, dying to know. In the movies no valet can be a hero. And in The Devil Wears Prada, it turns out, vengeance belongs to Miranda Priestly.
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