The Devil Wears Prada—the film, the novel, but above all the life of the author Lauren Weisberger—is not primarily intended for haute couture enthusiasts. It evokes the power of fascination exerted by certain people. It recalls the allegory of Icarus, who gets burned by flying too close to the sun. The sun in question is none other than Miranda Priestley, a fashion editor magnificently portrayed by Meryl Streep (“Prime” ; “The Manchurian Candidate”). Although fictional, the plot is largely inspired by reality: Lauren Weisberger was the personal assistant to Anna Wintour, the editor of Vogue, known for her tyrannical reputation.
A true fashion icon, she reigns over this world of poisonous glamour. This demon in high heels runs the magazine Runway. Her actions lead to questioning: is this cruel and unscrupulous being truly human? Meryl Streep develops this character, a master of psychological harassment, primarily targeting her two assistants. Emily (Emily Blunt: “My Summer of Love”), the more experienced, whose life is entirely devoted to fashion, dedicates herself body and soul to her tormentor. The second, Andrea (Anne Hathaway: “Brokeback Mountain”), has no allegiance to fashion. But to secure a career in journalism, she agrees to sell her soul and bury her principles. Her job is to anticipate and fulfill, as quickly as possible, the whims, sometimes the most incongruous, of their diabolical boss (like finding an unpublished J.K. Rowling work, going to great lengths for a meal that she ultimately won’t want, for example). These svelte slaves receive no recognition in return. Instead, they face icy reproaches for delayed task execution and outright dismissal at the first failure. These two lives, wholly dedicated to their boss around the clock, gradually lose all self-respect and private life. This ordeal will degrade the body of one and kill the critical spirit of the other.
Fashion, like any work of art, either attracts or repels but leaves no one indifferent. High fashion is primarily fueled by passion, nurtured by an irrational love for the combination of colors, textures, and shapes. Like a scientist, the stylist recognizes the model, brand, and composition at first glance. Whether we like it or not, these eccentric artists are at the origin of the clothes worn by the general public. If we admit that the beauty of a creation remains purely subjective, is it an excuse to grant the artist a value above ordinary mortals? Who can say that Miranda Priestley’s imagination would vanish if she were deprived of scapegoats?
The heroine, Andrea, constantly under tension, loses herself in schizophrenia. Unfortunately, the film omitted the ultimate crisis, the cherry on the cake, yet a crucial axis of the work, that would allow her to return to reality. The novel forces her to make a decisive choice: to go to the bedside of a friend in need and return to her former life or to stay with Miranda, permanently sacrificing any private life. A powerful scene that would have offered the film a better understanding of Andrea’s personality.
Like Bridget Jones, Lauren Weisberger’s work was praised by critics. The film, which seems to follow the same path, chooses to remain faithful to the novel, faithful enough to reprise key dialogues. The contribution of the film lies in the actors’ performances, particularly Meryl Streep, who steals the show. As in the original work, the love for clothing and luxury accessories is illustrated by a dazzling array of major brands. The situations, provoked by the contrast in this decadent world, reveal a cruel hilarity. The tyranny of appearance, the hell of the perfect body, the idolatry of expensive things, and bad faith gain depth in this delightful parody.
