Saturday, July 01, 2006

The Devil Wears Prada

"Pssst. Are my horns showing?"

Hated the book. Forced myself to read the book because I can't not finish things that I start. Stopped reading the book at intervals to both preserve sanity and to text C. to make fun of it.

Anticipated the movie a great deal.

Loved the movie. It was kind of like... what Weisberger wishes her book was. Like, the general concept except with talented writers and a lot of money behind it. I mean, sure it was a chick flick and yes, the plot is still somewhat silly and formulaic, and as with everything I lay eyes on, I already have precise calculations on what I would have done differently to improve it, but I also really enjoyed it.

Actually, I will say that I like Weisberger's Miranda better mostly because Streep just talked... kind of... a lot. For someone who's supposed to be a Class 'A' Bitch. I mean, us devils don't just expostulate that much. Brevity is the soul of wit, and also cutting. But then, in balance, Andrea was all blahblahblah whinewhinewhine talkTALKTALK ack! The book? Yeah. It drove me frickin' crazy. If I wanted to be an insider on some twit's mindnumbingly boring seesaw of personal crises, I would just hang around outside the movieplex and watch the prepubescents loiter and wait for their mommies, not go inside of it (or pay a heft of money to do so).

I kind of worry that if Weisberger wrote the book after her own experiences with Wintour, blahblah, etc, then she might really really relate to Andrea and she also feels she depicted herself truthfully and fairly as the heroine of the book and somehow, deep down, the success of this Hollywood film justifies her experiences and her diligence as, yknow, a real writer. I worry. I do. But be that as it may, mostly I hope she just feels very, very lucky. The Devil is Hollywood, dear. And your soul is toast.

(Don't worry, Weisberger. I would sell out, too. And then write the next great American novel. Ha, hahahahaa...)

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