The Nanny Diaries is essentially 2007’s answer to
The Devil Wears Prada, both being film adaptations of popular
“guilty pleasure” chic-lit. Comparing the two is a
no-brainer—Prada is better, with better wardrobes, a
bitchier matriarch, sharper satire, and more charming supporting
characters. But if you’re hungry for a chick-lit-to-flick fix,
Diaries will tide you over long enough for Prada to
arrive via Netflix.
Based on the novel of the same name, Diaries stars Scarlett
Johansson as Annie Braddock, or simply “Nanny,” and for once, Johansson
emotes without sounding like she’s reading cue cards. A recent college
grad, Annie is floundering with post-graduate indecision when she
stumbles upon a four-year-old boy, Grayer (Nicholas Art), and his
mother, referred to as Mrs. X (Laura Linney). Denizens of the Upper
East Side, Mrs. X and her husband Mr. X (Paul Giamatti) are portrayed
in the least flattering caricature of WASP-y affluence possible: Mr. X
is an absentee father, an adulterer, and a lecher, while Mrs.
X—who bears the brunt of the film’s insults—is
self-absorbed, demanding, neglectful, cold, spoiled, and greedy.
Without needing or wanting to work, Mrs. X sleeps until noon, and
requires a full-time nanny to look after her only child.
The Xs take on Annie as their nanny, and what follows is a fairly
trite, predictable comedy of bad parenting, nanny heroism, and
naturally, a dreamy love interest. It flirts with wanting to say
something meaningful about class issues, to make a point of its
skewering of the affluent, but it never quite wades past the shallowest
depths. But while certainly flawed, Diaries rolls along
enjoyably enough, and it’s easy to forgive it for refraining from
crossing the line into a more serious film. Like the mindless pleasure
of a celebrity tabloid, you’ll enjoy it, but soon forget it.