by MATTHEW HAYS

Movies about the fashion industry have generally failed, usually quite miserably. From the dreadful (Mahogany, Prêt-à-Porter) to the mediocre (Stardom), touching the subject has meant that even directors as venerable as Robert Altman have stumbled.

But The Devil Wears Prada has the lucky distinction of being more about the fashion press than the fashion world itself.

Based on the bestselling bit of barely veiled fiction by Lauren Weisberger, the film’s protagonist is a young lass (Anne Hathaway), fresh out of J-school, looking to score an entry-level job in print journalism. All she can scrounge up, as it turns out, is a second-assistant gig to Meryl Streep, who plays the all-powerful editor of the industry’s magazine bible, Runway (a fictional stand-in for Vogue). As expected, Streep makes the role her own, perfecting every bitchy, nasty turn by this diva. It’s often very funny, and Streep even manages to make her character occasionally sympathetic, a tribute to her skill as an actor.

Hathaway plays the fish out of water well, and though we can see many of the gags coming a mile away, director David Frankel (Miami Rhapsody) avoids the overly cutesy pratfalls that might have marred this film. Surprisingly, much of The Devil Wears Prada is highly entertaining, a movie that (for the most part) doesn’t take itself too seriously, while giving us some insight into the ludicrous world that is the fashion press. (For those who think the filmmakers have gone over the top, forget it—this really isn’t that far off the mark.)

As chick flicks demand, Hathaway gets to have a makeover about a third into the movie. The only way to survive, she sensibly concludes, is to seriously slut herself up. And she does, draping herself in a series of shockingly silly outfits—you know the ones, the hugely impractical ones that are featured on those fashion shows that never seem to be worn by mere mortals on the street.

The movie’s Big Message smacks of hypocrisy, given what it’s gift-wrapped in. Hathaway learns that, like, all that fashion stuff is really pretty phoney, and—gee, d’you know what?—that someone’s job shouldn’t really take over their life. There are other things in your world: friends, family, cute, neglected boyfriend, not to mention real, hard news that counts. This anti-vacuous, opposed-to-all-things-shallow message feels somewhat contradictory, given that it’s being delivered in the middle of a vacuous, shallow summer movie.

But the question could be posed: Why mess with a winning formula that’s served the studios so well? The Devil Wears Prada appears to be quite unapologetic for any of its contradictions. It allows us to disdain the fashion world, while revelling in it; it pokes fun at the fashionistas, while giving us a glimpse into their inner world. It’s the ultimate wish fulfilment, allowing us to identify with Hathaway, who’s too good for this sleazy, superficial business—but who could make it work if she wanted to. Yes, The Devil Wears Prada is a silly movie. But it’s as fun as it is shallow.

The Devil Wears Prada opens Friday, June 30

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