After watching The Devil Wears Prada, one thing becomes quite clear. People into fashion are just like comic book geeks. They obsess month after month for the latest issue of their favorite magazine, which they claim might be about the writing but they really just like the brightly colored pictures. Occasionally, they wonder whether or not a cape would work.

Yep. Just like comic book fans. Only much, much hotter.

Fans of fashion will also nitpick at The Devil Wears Prada, the closest thing to a magazine adaptation they're going to get at the movies this year. It deals with the industry they know far more about than the mainstream does. So now we can know what it feels like to be the average person watching a Batman, Spider-Man or (oh, it hurts) Hulk film. Because honestly, I could care less who's wearing what, what goes with what or any of that.

The amazing thing about The Devil Wears Prada is that as magazine editor Miranda Priestly, Meryl Streep actually gives us a good reason to care. Delivering a diatribe to Andy Sachs (Anne Hathaway), Priestly explains exactly how the ethereal world of high fashion trickles down and touches even those that shop at mall stores.

Unfortunately, the script by Aline Brosh McKenna doesn't follow through with this idea, never letting it really resonate. It doesn't have the courage of its convictions, just as Andy, the metaphorical scullery maid turned dark Cinderella at the center of the story, doesn't have the courage to be herself.

She may defend Amanda by saying that if her boss were a man, no one would give her actions a second thought. Of course, the title refers to her as the devil, so every moment we might get of understanding has to be obliterated by five that hypocritically paint her as a demoness. Granted, a very well-coiffed demoness.

In truth, she's no more selfish than anybody else. Perhaps a little more driven than many, but Andy is closer to the truth than she knows. If Amanda was a man, we wouldn't have a movie.

If it wasn't for Meryl Streep, we'd have a Lifetime movie.

Nothing about the plot should come as a surprise. A naïve innocent comes to New York with stars in her eyes and dreaming of being a high-powered journalist. Instead, she gets a job with exactly the corrupting influence that she doesn't need. Heck, this goes further back than Wall Street, though Hathaway earns points for being both prettier than Charlie Sheen and likely to be one of the few women he can't claim he's slept with.

The film offers up some evidence that Andy is a talented writer, particularly in the support she gets from roguish but charming writer Christan Thompson (Simon Baker). By becoming Miranda's assistant, however, she has no time to write. Slowly but surely, she betrays everything she holds dear, including dewy-eyed boyfriend Nate (Adrian Grenier).

Nate, by the way, works as a chef, clearly not a high-stress job in New York that requires long hours and involves egos at all. Just ask Anthony Bourdain.

Despite all the obvious pressures on Andy, the movie succeeds in making her job actually seem pretty cool. It's those friends who knew her when that seem obnoxious. So what if Nate knows his way around a good cheese? He's nowhere near as fun as Nigel (Stanley Tucci), Andy's brutally honest fairy godmother at Runway magazine.

At a few points, the movie has some sparkle. Director David Frankel and Cinematographer Florian Ballhaus stage a pretty good montage for Andy's fashion make-over. Streep and Tucci delicately chew all the scenery they can find, trailed by Emily Blunt as Miranda's primary assistant, so afraid that Andy will turn this into All About Eve. Or she would be, if Emily knew what that movie was. She's too dedicated to Miranda to have a life.

Of course, Hathaway herself has gone the route of Andy's journey before, but she is an appealing actress that can play frumpy and glamorous with equal aplomb. There's just nothing new or quirky to it here, and she never gets to really cut loose and be dark, though Miranda claims she does.

Give Frankel some credit for going a long time before Miranda gains any self-awareness. In fact, I was kind of hoping he'd never get around to it. But rules must be followed, and sure enough, Streep gets a good crying scene before going back to her manipulative ways. As villains go, she's no Lex Luthor or Doctor Doom. She's just a woman with a good sense of fashion who actually deserves the power she has.

The Devil Wears Prada just struts back and forth, never hitting its magnum look. Pretty at times, it lacks the archness that it promises.

Rating:

Derek McCaw