Meryl Streep, Anne Hathaway, Stanley Tucci
Directed by David Frankel
Rated PG-13

Prada is the story of eager new journalism grad Andrea Sachs who, desperate for a job in publishing, lands the job “a million girls would die for” as second assistant to a wicked, Miranda Priestly, editor of a high fashion magazine.

For fans of Lauren Weisberger’s novel, comparisons stop there. Screenwriter Aline Brosh McKenna has stripped it of its integrity and other major elements. The film is all glamour, no substance?an exact contrast to the grit, spirit, and realism of the solid, but whiny, book.

The discrepancies between the two would fill this newspaper, so instead let’s focus on why we’re here: the second-rate version of the story?director David Frankel’s film.

There is nothing outstanding about this film, especially not the performances. They are each weak and sub par, hovering just below the line that could’ve made them remarkable.
Even Streep, who should have dived into this diva performance, breezes through the role of vicious Priestly half-heartedly. Instead of commanding the screen with her ridiculous demands and curt remarks, she seems ambivalent, unsure whether to follow through with the cattiness or show the soft crab under the hardened shell.

And poor Anne Hathaway, so desperate to tear herself from the innocent and wholesome Disney image honed in Ella Enchanted and the two Princess Diaries, has fallen right back into the virtuous, honorable, and innocent girlie role after promising bolder turns in Havoc and Brokeback Mountain.

Andy’s work threatens all of her relationships and her stability, yet she straps on the Jimmy Choo shoes and welcomes the praise and attention from peers while she gains Miranda’s approval, thanks to a helpful makeover by art editor Nigel (Tucci) and an endless closet of couture, provided by “Sex and the City” fashion consultant Patricia Fields.

The supporting cast is limited and useless. Grenier is blandly miscast as pouting, disappointed Nate and would’ve been much more exciting as Christian, the hot NYC writer suavely trying to steal Andy’s heart and help fulfill her dream to work for The New Yorker. Instead, he seems goofy (and too OLD!!) as played by Aussie Simon Baker.

The usually brilliant Tucci is wasted as Nigel, who tries to encourage Andy by getting her fabulous shoes and a killer wardrobe, but never ceases the usual insults about her weight (she’s a size 6), so casual and frequent at Runway.

Only in Emily Blunt’s portrayal of first assistant Emily is there some relief, with her quick, British wit and spunky way she demeans Andy, she is funny and devilish, at times more biting than Miranda herself.

Otherwise, the film is a cinematic wasteland, in no way cute or charming. It is but another example of how Hollywood perpetuates the unattainable beauty and consumer myths force fed to the American public via the media.