David Frankel’s The Devil Wears Prada is tad of a version than it as an adaptation.
The book’s heroin is Andy but missed-out details stripped her off that role leaving Streep as the real hero. THE Meryl Streep alone is bound to cast shadow on both Andy’s heroin role and the message her character is suppose to send across.
In the last two chapters, during a fashion week in Paris, we’ll find Andy chew up and bark at Miranda to fuck herself—a trivial detail among other imperative fine points omitted in the movie that sets it in a different air.
The movie downplayed some sub plots which might have helped push the message that a “real” job and pedestrian clothing is fine to live by as long as you are happy. (Sell that to a generation who’d likely to honor Oscar dela Renta with a Nobel.)
Nonetheless, everyone seems to find both the book and the movie entertaining. Ditto! So I’m ok.
P.S.
Once-upon-a-time Anna Wintour assistant Lauren Weisberger should wiegh up the possibilities for a The Devil Wears Prada the Series one that would give Ugly Betty people a run for their money.
20 March 2007
Labels: Books I just read.
