The Devils Wore Pride

So, the failure of the A/C unit on Saturday night, in conspiracy with the 90° temps on Sunday, provided me with the excusitunity to take in The Devil Wears Prada. The premise had mildly interested me, what with wondering how vapid the fashionistas would be portrayed, and of course Meryl Streep is still the finest contemporary actress. But it seemed utterly formulaïc, and I wasn't sure I wanted to spend even matinée money on it. Throw in an air-conditioned theater, though, and that made the sale yesterday.

I was right: it was utterly formulaïc. But worse than that was the fact that, with no exceptions, I didn't even feel casual sympathy for any character in the movie. I pretty much disliked them all. Not because of the actors, of course: because of the Hollywooden screenwriting. And not to say that the acting was bad: Miss Streep portrayed her character very convincingly. At the end, I cared about as much about the characters' future success as I did for the protagonists' in Night of the Living Dead, or the cast of Real World New Orleans: which is to say, not at all.

One might think that, in a movie about the fashion world, fashion might be a sort of character in its own right, but it wasn't. It was more of an accessory (in both senses). There were a couple of half-hearted efforts at pointing up the preposterousness of fashion and its self-justifications, but without exception, even the clothes themselves were more silly than ridiculous. There were only two exceptions, outfits that actually looked good; they appeared just before and during the dénouement: a dressy suit, and a striking green dress.

Sadly, they were both worn by Anne Hathaway, about whom I have only this "Shining" observation to make: