by JULIET WATERS

Two years ago, Lauren Weisberger, Vogue editor Anna Wintour’s former assistant, wrote The Devil Wears Prada, a thinly fictionalized hatchet job about her boss from hell. Asked what she thought of the novel, Wintour dismissed it with icy class. “I wish her well,” was her only comment, but a wise one given that the book became a summer blockbuster. When Bob and Harvey Weinstein heard that Rachel Pine, an ex-publicity assistant at Miramax, had written a thinly fictionalized hatchet job called The Twins of TriBeCa, they took a different approach.

Understandably, Pine’s agent didn’t send the manuscript to Miramax’s publishing division, but somehow the Weinsteins got a copy. They read about the Waxman brothers, siblings who, despite their bitter rivalry, manage to run Glorious, a high-grossing film company, in more ways than one: Phil Waxman is a repulsive slob with disgusting eating habits. Food falls constantly from his mouth and he butts cigarettes out in gallons of ice cream. The company is staffed largely by Tony Waxman’s ex-flings, and the executives at Glorious, mostly women, function like a coven of witches who terrorize an endless parade of starry-eyed interns willing to sell their souls in a second for the chance to ride the same elevator as major movie stars.

And the stars are barely disguised; there are not very complimentary versions of Gwyneth Paltrow, Robert De Niro, Woody Allen, David Schwimmer, Ralph Fiennes, Ben Affleck and Matt Damon (referred to here as the Milli Vanilli of screenwriting). Glorious is named after the Waxman’s mother, who in addition to being the kind of mother who raises insufferably spoilt sons, is responsible for destroying the career of a talented writer because he turned out to be the son of the woman her husband left her for.

In a move hard to believe in real life, though it makes more sense after you’ve read this book, Miramax not only published The Twins of TriBeCa, but according to an interview Pine gave on the Today show, Harvey Weinstein called her up personally to say, “You’ve done something we’ve never been able to do... turn my mother into a character.”

Of course there are important differences between The Devil and The Twins. Devil was self-serving and condescending. The heroine never really wanted to work at a high-end fashion magazine, but thought it might be a stepping-stone to her career as a writer (one she evidently needed given her level of talent). Twins, on the other hand, has no such pretensions. Managing to be both sharp and silly, it’s definitely one of the better examples of a summer genre that seems to be here to stay: worklit. And if there’s one rule that seems to be emerging for the success of worklit, it’s: keep it playful.

You can say a lot of mean things about the Weinsteins—and apparently you really can—but they know when something’s going to make them a lot of money. Plus, in The Twins, Pine’s alter ego, Karen Jacobs, is fired right before she signs her confidentiality agreement. The new rule in the game of conglomerate publishing these days would seem to be, if you can’t sue them, publish them.

This isn’t to say there aren’t problems with the book. Much of its dish is way past its expiry date. It takes place in a time so far, far in the past that the Gwyneth Paltrow character is still dating a Brad Pitt character. What keeps it readable are the kinds of entertaining ironies that an intelligent person, with an average amount of soul, comes up against every day in difficult, demanding “dream jobs.” Ironies just like the one surrounding the publication of the book. Sure, it’s becoming one of the oldest stories in the world—girl gets job, girl hates job, girl loses job—but it’s a tough life and somebody’s gotta write it... and somebody’s gotta make money off it.

The Twins of Tribeca by Rachel Pine, Miramax, hc, 374pp, $32.95