The Devil Wears Prada: footless tights, yes or no?
What a surprise – The Devil Wears Prada has received none of the critical acclaim of The Departed or Children of Men. I won’t rant . . .it’s not quite a good enough movie for me to get all hot and bothered. But it’s far more interesting than most reviewers give it credit for, and that does bug me.
Most pundits have grudgingly allowed that Meryl Streep carries the movie, which is indisputable. She’s an actress who improves with age, I think, mellowing and deepening and losing some of her early nervy affectation – and she gives a subtle, very complex performance. It’s striking to me that I identify with her character, the older woman who has given up a lot by making the choices that have got her where she is today, and not the slip of a thing played by Anne Hathaway, the striving modern miss with all her life ahead of her.
Devil isn’t as anti-fashion as I thought it was going to be, and for that I applaud it. Streep gives a great speech explaining, with terrifying, razor-sharp intelligence, that Hathaway’s “choice” not to follow fashion is no choice at all; that her frumpy blue jumper is in fact as conscious a style statement as her co-worker’s Chanel handbag. If I hadn’t been stuffing chocolate raisins down my gullet I would have applauded. It used to drive me mad when a certain ex-boyfriend of mine would dismiss my concerns about his sludgy cardigans and ill-fitting Gap chinos as shallow and insignificant. “I just don’t care about clothes,” he’d insist loftily, as if that somehow made him superior to me. It’s not like I wanted him to deck himself out in designer T-shirts and ridiculously priced jeans (I’m an anti-label snob; a hangover from growing up in the punk years). I was just asking him to care about himself, I think, and ultimately, to care about me.
Am currently wondering whether I’m too old to wear footless tights. I loved them the first time around, worn with 1950s jumble sale skirts, cheap Woolworth’s plimsolls and men’s cardigans; but it feels just a little weird to kit myself out in the clothes I wore twenty years ago. (I’d ditch the baggy cardis today, but the skirts and plimsolls look is one I still hold dear, and explains my current enchantment with Lily Allen.) Perhaps I should watch The Devil Wears Prada again. I don’t think The Departed is going to help me out much.
Most pundits have grudgingly allowed that Meryl Streep carries the movie, which is indisputable. She’s an actress who improves with age, I think, mellowing and deepening and losing some of her early nervy affectation – and she gives a subtle, very complex performance. It’s striking to me that I identify with her character, the older woman who has given up a lot by making the choices that have got her where she is today, and not the slip of a thing played by Anne Hathaway, the striving modern miss with all her life ahead of her.
Devil isn’t as anti-fashion as I thought it was going to be, and for that I applaud it. Streep gives a great speech explaining, with terrifying, razor-sharp intelligence, that Hathaway’s “choice” not to follow fashion is no choice at all; that her frumpy blue jumper is in fact as conscious a style statement as her co-worker’s Chanel handbag. If I hadn’t been stuffing chocolate raisins down my gullet I would have applauded. It used to drive me mad when a certain ex-boyfriend of mine would dismiss my concerns about his sludgy cardigans and ill-fitting Gap chinos as shallow and insignificant. “I just don’t care about clothes,” he’d insist loftily, as if that somehow made him superior to me. It’s not like I wanted him to deck himself out in designer T-shirts and ridiculously priced jeans (I’m an anti-label snob; a hangover from growing up in the punk years). I was just asking him to care about himself, I think, and ultimately, to care about me.
Am currently wondering whether I’m too old to wear footless tights. I loved them the first time around, worn with 1950s jumble sale skirts, cheap Woolworth’s plimsolls and men’s cardigans; but it feels just a little weird to kit myself out in the clothes I wore twenty years ago. (I’d ditch the baggy cardis today, but the skirts and plimsolls look is one I still hold dear, and explains my current enchantment with Lily Allen.) Perhaps I should watch The Devil Wears Prada again. I don’t think The Departed is going to help me out much.
posted by Samantha Cook | 6:18 PM
7 Comments:
I can't help thinking that film reviews are representative of the film critic demographic - I imagine that they are mostly middle-aged, slightly sad, men.
This would certainly explain the unconstrained adulation for the film "Sideways". Yes it was a good film but was it really that remarkable? Or was it the fact that film critics feel a personal resonance with a story about slightly sad middle-aged men drinking wine and acting irresponsibly?
I don't think that with today's technology and vast amount of opinions that we have to really worry about those types of demographics determining whether a movie is good or not.
I mean with rottentomatoes.com and aintitcool.com, it goes to show that it isn't *just* middle-aged men who have a high opinion of one film or another...just because it struck some nostolgic chord from the country club.
If worst comes to worst, anyone could just dismiss all those claims as just "jumping the bandwagon" and calling their opinions not unique at all.
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And you can't always lay the blame on middle-aged, slightly sad men, either ... nor depend upon young, hip female reviewers to have young, hip takes on movies.
In London's free daily, London Lite, 19 October, the youthful Nina Caplan slates Sofia Coppola's Marie Antoinette, spitting out vitriol about its "lack of plot and excess of sugar", and contemptuously dismissing Coppola as a "narcissistic writer-director". Caplan follows the establishment line that Coppola, and her movie, are shallow – utterly damning this intriguing and vibrant movie, and its trailblazing female director, in her wake.
Meanwhile, The Last Kiss, Zach Braff's dreary hymn to thirty-something male angst, gets a big thumbs up. Sigh. (I loved Garden State; I have a soft spot for Scrubs; I find Zach Braff appealing. But do we really need *another* movie about boys who don't want to settle down and the winsome party girls who woo them?)
I'm going to see Marie Antoinette for the second time tonight and will post over the weekend.
I went to see The Last Kiss last night and I wouldn't call it a hymn to male angst, exactly. I quite enjoyed (what I saw as) its balanced take on relationships, and didn't see Zach Braff's character as a hero. I was worried that it would degenerate into simplistic schmaltz, but I was pleased that he wasn't let off easily. Overall, I found there was a refreshing absence of misogyny for a Hollywood film that was mostly from the man's point of view. An uncomfortable film to watch, but ultimately satisfying.
I didn't find The Devil Wears Prada as satisfying however. I *loved* Meryl Streep's performance, especially the saggy blue jumper speech :D but overall didn't think it was a great adaptation. I haven't read the book, and apparently the film is better, but I found myself constantly wondering whether whole chunks of character development and witty dialogue had been left on the cutting-room floor in favour of yet another 'What a bitch that English assistant is' moment or "I'm so great, why am I here?" whines from the drippy lead character.
Hey - I'm spamming your blog!
Jo
Hi Jo
Great to see you over here on blogger. Not spamming in the slightest, but instead offering food for thought ...
I am still mulling over your Last Kiss thoughts!
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