Review by Mark Mallon
(Warning: I spoil a bit in this one.)

Just when it looked darkest, the hero was made to reflect on his own past, and he saw the villain in his own actions. He knew then that he had gone too far down the path of darkness, that the sword he chose to wield had carried him away from himself. He looked at the villain and saw his own future. He had only to decide between the power and the price.

What was I watching? Was it Return of the Jedi, when Luke cuts off Darth Vader’s hand? Was it the last season of Angel? Was it that Say No To Drugs commercial where the kid says, “I’m not a chicken, you’re a turkey!” No. It was The Devil Wears Prada. And every other primrose path film, spanning styles, genres, and centuries—except that Laertes didn’t figure it out in time to stop the evil. No wonder it was the premier of chick-lit. At least, I’m told it was. It’s easy to spearhead something new when you use something old.

I should probably mention that I actually liked the movie. I liked Angel, too. And Return of the Jedi was the last good Star Wars.

In the Devil Wears Prada, Andrea Sacs gets to work somewhere she doesn’t fit in, and she gets to learn to fit in, and then she saves the world by dismantling the bomb at the last second, thwarting the nefarious Dr. Evil.

Okay, am I being difficult or speaking in metaphor? I can’t tell anymore. Let me spoil the movie for you:

She gets the job, she sucks at the job, she adapts to her environment, she’s good at her job, she screws up, she gets better at her job, the sith gain control of the clone army, and she learns that Darth Vader really is her mother. (It’s a very confused movie.)

Okay, it’s not confused at all, but really, when it comes to stuff this formulaic, what can one possibly talk about? The wardrobe? Her hair? The hideous mockery of feel-goodness? Well, there wasn’t a single bit of acting in it that I couldn’t believe, and for that I credit both the cast and the director. The character took more abuse than I would have, I suppose, and had I been in her place it would have been a much shorter movie.

They played the whole slippery slope thing well enough to believe while I was in the theater, but I still can’t bring myself to believe that a better wardrobe made her better at her job, or even better at coordinating her clothing. I mean, I’ve got great clothes, and I still dress like a hobo. I’ve got this one shirt that my girlfriend hates so much—Gah! I just can’t do it! I can’t sit here and invent crap to spew at you about what I believe to be a largely forgettable movie!

You know what? That’s it, that’s enough. I didn’t hate The Devil Wears Prada, I just won’t remember it tomorrow. Disagree with me? Send your opinions to wordsmith@magi-creations.com, under the subject line, Wear Prada.

Oh yes, and don’t you just hate it when the first ten minutes of movie is totally spoiled for you by the ten minute preview that plays over and over and over…