All Kinds Of Time

It only took me ten minutes after The Devil Wears Prada to start channeling my own inner Miranda Priestly. Our movie theater in New Jersey is in a strip mall (big shock there, I know) that houses a Wal-Mart (again, big shock). We don’t go to Wal-Mart that often; it’s kind of out of the way, but we did need ink for the printer, and a new soap dispenser for the bathroom, and a new shower curtain, and where do you go to get all three items except at Wal-Mart, I ask you? Nowhere, that’s where.

We make our selections and stand in line — the “express” line, twelve items or less, and it’s moving more sluggishly than cream cheese on a cold bagel. The person ahead of us in line is paying with singles, and they must be counted again and recounted by the cashier, and then we finally make our way to the head of the line, and it’s all I can do to tell the poor overworked, underappreciated, nickled-and-dimed soul, “Oh, no hurry, please continue to move at your glacial pace.”

Miranda Priestly tells her protégé near the end of The Devil Wears Prada that everyone wants to live the way she does, and you don’t appreciate that until you’re waiting in line at Wal-Mart. You certainly don’t appreciate it if you’re poor Andrea, her assistant, not to say minion, not to say indentured servant.  Because the story is told from Andrea’s (Anne Hathaway) perspective, the life of Miranda Priestly (Meryl Streep) doesn’t seem to be that wonderful — but wonderful it is.  We see Miranda alight from her elevator (which may not be occupied by any other mortal while she is inside) and swoop into her office, rattle off a list of near-impossible demands, and toss — not to say throw, not to say heave — her purse and coat onto poor Andrea’s desk.  And this happens multiple, multiple times.

From Andrea’s perspective, it’s clear what’s going on; she is being mistreated, misused and mistaken for someone who actually gives two Popsicles in hell about Miranda Priestly’s glamorous life and career.  But from Miranda’s perspective — well, she’s mentoring the poor lass, giving her responsibility, don’t you know.  If she heaves her bag onto her minion’s desk, it’s just because she doesn’t have all kinds of time; one cannot be expected, given the press of events, to stop and be polite, or even to put one’s purse up one’s own self.  The day is full of phone calls that must be either answered or ignored (and you had better know, if you’re Andrea, which kind of call is which), photo layouts that must be approved or discarded, and most importantly, people that need to be praised or judged.  Mostly the latter.

When Andrea’s on the job, when she’s given some rapid-fire instructions from Miranda — call the American Ambassador to Paris, get me some coffee, arrange to put two dozen white calla lillies on Gianni Versace’s grave, get me a reservation at that restaurant I like – things crackle with interest and tension.  But then The Devil Wears Prada shifts to poor Andrea alone, and the pace goes back to being glacial.  There is scene after tedious scene where poor Andrea bemoans her ill fate to her friends at the corner bar, or where she argues with her mistreated and under-appreciated boyfriend.  This is undermined a bit by the Stanley Tucci character, who gives Andrea an extreme fashion makeover, which somehow manages to make her more efficient and better at her job - but, as we’re told over and over again, it’s the same poor Andrea underneath the glad-rags.

(Here we veer into waters that are meant for other reviewers, ones who know their fashion, so I won’t say a word about the clothes in the movie except to say, well, eh.  The Devil Wears Prada is the sort of movie that cares about such things, but it is told broadly enough that I don’t have to.  This makes it a better date movie than it might otherwise be; your average fashion-phobic guy can enjoy the storyline without having to pay attention to the details of what people are wearing at any given moment, while fashionistas will lap this sort of thing up.  Just a hint out there to everyone else who can’t convince their wives to go see Snakes on a Plane.)

Anne Hathaway has a thankless role here, and she has to face off against Meryl Streep time and again, which puts her at a severe disadvantage.  (It would be gilding the lily to praise Streep’s work here, so I won’t, except to say make sure you have her in your Oscar pool.)  But she’s cute and plucky enough to carry off a role that calls for little more, and she’s blessed with support from the stellar Stanley Tucci and a conspicuous lack thereof from the equally stellar Emily Blunt.  (Blunt:  “I’m one stomach flu away from reaching my goal weight.”)

The Devil Wears Prada is a bit too long in places, while still being a bit too short to reach its full potential.  (I could watch three or four movies with Streep in this part.)  But it’s consistently funny, and surprisingly watchable for a chick-flick.  If nothing else, it will improve your next Wal-Mart experience considerably.