First, the clothes: The Devil Wears Prada's costume designer, Patricia Field, sails in on her Sex and the City cred to whip up a populist but appealing parade of sartorial eye candy—which, interestingly, turns out to be very much in the vein of what Teen Vogue was doing in last year's "Back to School" issue, but with higher heels.
As for the film itself, it's as fresh faced and middling as you would imagine, given its basis in a chick-lit story by Lauren Weisberger, whose novel is a pseudo-biographical tell-all about Condé Nast-y's queen bee, Vogue Editor Anna Wintour. Played by Meryl Streep, Wintour's fictional incarnation is Miranda Priestley, and Vogue magazine drolly shows up as Runway.
The backdrop for Devil is a basic plot about a small-town girl who makes good in the big city, with Anne Hathaway as Andy Sachs, the small-town girl and Priestley's assistant. At Runway, Andy's thrown into a world where women don't eat, a size six is considered fat, and she has to struggle through the world of high fashion with appalling ignorance. Hathaway does this by the book—she looks ravishingly gorgeous, but otherwise barely registers.
Streep, on the other hand, remains unfuckwithable, delivering cold one-line insults that will make the hairs on the back of your neck curl. The rest of the supporting cast fares well too—particularly Stanley Tucci, as the inevitable gay man who becomes Sachs' only friend, and Emily Blunt, as the adorably sarcastic fashion obsessive who begrudgingly serves as Sachs' mentor.
Devil's story moves along predictably and comfortably enough, remaining easily entertaining and colorful. Hathaway is so flat that it's difficult to muster much of an emotional response to her character's various crises, but frankly, the emotional connection isn't sorely missed. Better to content oneself with the view, and enjoy the soothing banality.