As I absolutely loathed the book, I was kind of surprised at myself when I found that I was excited to see the movie version of The Devil Wears Prada. After one aborted sold-out attempt on the film's opening weekend, blogger Red Sauce and I finally caught it this past Friday.
While not nearly as reprehensible as the book, the movie is still fairly annoying—Meryl Streep, Emily Blunt, and Stanley Tucci aside. I had hoped the film would show the Lauren Weisberger character to be just as irritating as she comes across in the book—a whining child of privilege, upset at having to fetch some fashion bitch's coffee when anyone could see she'd be much better suited to writing "thinky" pieces at the New Yorker. Yeah, right. But instead, the directors opted for hiring the aggressively bland Anne Hathaway to portray a spunky gal with a heart of gold. Barf.
Hathaway has approximately two different facial expressions and both of them made me want to hit her in the head with a bottle, so in that way she was true to the book. Adrian Grenier plays her boyfriend, proving once again that while he's easy on the eyes. . .
he should probably start thinking up another day job. Which is a shame, because I've seen him act onstage twice and both times he was amazing. But neither the small screen ("Entourage") or the large screen seem to bring out anything more than a blank leadenness in him. Yawn.
In a truly gag-inducing cliché, Hathaway's character comes complete with both a sassy black friend and the obligatory gay boy.
The atmosphere at the women's mags rang pretty true, but the journalism crap had me choking on my popcorn. Blech. All in all, not a painful waste of time, but a waste of time nonetheless.