I love The Devil Wears Prada for its interesting main character, tear-jerking love story and poetic descriptions of outfits and interiors. Said no one ever.
I can’t imagine Lauren Weisberger not knowing that the reason why a couple million women bought her debut novel was for her mockery of all the skinny, long-legged, Gucci-clad and huge-headed women we all despise, but sometimes secretly envy. Yet, for reasons I cannot comprehend, she decided to transform the shy, awkward and unstylish leading lady that we’d learned to like, into one of them.
Now Andy wears size 4 designer dresses and too-small Chloe stilettos. She’s married to a wealthy and fabulously handsome businessman. She abandoned her New Yorker ambitions for good and interviewed celebrities about flowers and fillet mignons for some lame blog before launching a luxury wedding magazine with her best friend Emily – yes, that very same dumb, mean Emily she had to work alongside during their Runway days. And it’s not Em who’s changed.
Another quality that made TDWP stand out from the long rows of generic chic lit was its insight into the fashion world. In the sequel, the fashion content is limited to some name-dropping and – yes, you guessed: descriptions of outfits (no wonder Weisberger used to work for Vogue!) No September issues, no flowers for spring, no overanalyzing blue sweaters, and very little of Miranda’s bitchiness.
So what is the book about? Let’s see. We have Andy getting married. Andy going for a spa retreat. Andy deciding what to wear to a yacht party. Andy having a baby (we’re spared no descriptions of the sweetness, cuteness, adorableness, poo and puke of the little devil, which, quite possibly, wears Prada Kids.) And Andy refusing to sell her stupid glossy during nearly half of the book, even though she’s offered millions. Maybe Weisberger can identify with a character like that, but not me.
With its slow-paced story with no real line, Revenge Wears Prada reminds me of one of these soap operas, where you can skip five episodes and still perfectly understand what’s going on – not that you really care. Sure, such comfortingly mindless series can border on enjoyable when you have nothing better to do during a rainy summer, and especially when washed down with hot chocolate. But they’re certainly not something Meryl Streep would ever agree to play in.
And I don’t even know what the titular revenge was supposed to be. A vengeance on Devil fans for their high expectations?