I am not an Anne Hathaway fan and I am not a Meryl Streep fan. But there is a certain chemical reaction in my brain when you bring the two of them together with a light dusting of Adrian Grenier and his “eight dollars’ worth of Jarlsberg” that pushes all of my pop-culture buttons.
If The Devil Wears Prada is on, I’m watching it, day or night, halfway through, beginning to end, or from the cell-phone toss in the Parisian fountain to the “Oh, my god, did Miranda see her?!” ending. The details of my first foray into this mid-aughts masterpiece are a bit blurry. I was probably using a steady stream of early afternoon HBO to nurse a hangover and figured Prada was the most serviceable choice from the 10 channels of HBO, which had been sagging under the weight of In Her Shoes and You, Me and Dupree heavy rotations.
I can’t pinpoint exactly what sucked me in. I’m one of the least fashionable people I know, so it wasn’t that scene where Streep metaphorically curb stomps Hathaway over that cerulean belt comment. “You go to your closet and you select out, oh I don’t know, that lumpy blue sweater, for instance, because you’re trying to tell the world that you take yourself too seriously to care about what you put on your back.” Oh! You are a little devil, Miranda. Aren’t you?! Holly hell that was amazing!
I like Stanley Tucci, but I wouldn’t consider myself a fan. Though, he did have quite a complex character in Prada. One minute, he’s fat-shaming the bejesus out of Andy as he ogles her dinner roll with the heat of 1,000 suns, then a couple scenes later he is counseling her on Runway dos and don’ts and hooking her up with the most divine Dolce, Jimmy Choos, Blahniks, Nancy Gonzalez, etc. The man is an absolute national treasure.
I even enjoyed Streep. This was no Bridges of Madison County Meryl. This Meryl took Miranda Priestly to places no other actress in the history of Hollywood could have. She works you into a tantrum with her coffee, lunch, and boogie board demands. There is a sense a vulnerability amid the aggression. And that world-renowned emotional range comes frothing to the surface when Andy stumbles upon poor Miranda crying in her hotel room. I can’t imagine the toll that that many divorces would have on a career woman.
Well, I could go on forever. But I know how frustrating spoilers can be. If you haven’t seen The Devil Wears Prada, make some time to. Also, what the hell is wrong with you?! Also, call me up if you live in the South Hills, and I’ll gladly bring over some of my Jarlsberg grilled cheeses.