When young Sonny Corleone brought the starving, half-blind Tom Hagan home to meet his father, and Vito took the boy in, Tom was not looking for a way to get his foot in the door with the mob. Tom probably had dreams of some other, slightly more ordinary career. But just as he hadn't been looking for a mafia foothold when he had that first plate of spaghetti with the Corleones, when it was time for him to start his professional life, he didn't come to Vito and say, "I really want to do something meaningful with my life, but I know that a year at your side and a good reference from you will cement my chances of getting a job as an investigative reporter, writing exposes about underworld ties to the olive oil import business. I find what you do repugnant, and frankly, a little silly, but I know you can help me further my career."
No, Tom became consigliari, and when it came time for him to do distasteful things in the name of his job, he did them, because that was what he had been hired to do. When he got back from a hard weekend visiting a child-molesting movie producer where he'd had to orchestrate a little animal cruelty in the name of persuasion, Tom didn't go to the bar with his friends and complain about how this wasn't what he really wanted to do with his life, but that the perks were great and it would all be worth it one day. He didn't laugh contemptuously at the made men he spent time with, and he didn't deliberately shirk the dress code, showing up to work in a pastel leisure suit when everyone else was wearing pinstripes.
Tom liked his job so much he even married a nice Italian girl. He didn't go home at the end of the day and cry his eyes out to someone who wished he'd just quit already and go do something altruistic.
But that was The Godfather, and if Tom Hagen had been the star of The Devil Wears Prada, it might have been a transcendent movie-going experience, instead of another average romantic comedy redeemed by some transcendental performances.
The main problem with The Devil Wears Prada is that its ostensible heroine is not the person the audience roots for. Anne Hathaway is a beautiful young woman and she's good at playing winsome and plucky. Yet her character, Andy Sachs, is almost the least interesting thing in the movie, with the bottom spot reserved for her "quirky" friends who are straight out of central casting. Andy is pretty, perky, has a lot to learn about the world, and gets a Cinderella makeover with her own fashion montage. That's pretty much all there is to say about her. Otherwise, she's just another whatsherface heroine with standard dilemmas.
It's the villains and pseudo-villains who make this movie (or the scenes where they appear) so good, even though their parts are as cliched as those of the good guys. Stanley Tucci takes the catty gay colleague role and infuses it with real humanity and a spot of pathos. Emily Blunt makes the mean girl you love to hate into a sympathetic figure while rolling her eyes like Zero Mostel in haute couture. And, of course, there's Meryl Streep.
I once heard Ms. Streep described as the oatmeal of actresses - terribly good for you, but not much fun. I tended to agree, until I saw her performance as Miranda Priestly, which was nothing short of masterful, not to mention painfully funny.
The character is as archetypal as they get: career demon, fashion plate, over-indulgent mommy, and unsuccessful wife. Miranda's sugar-coated voice, whispery diction, platinum coif, and impeccable clothes are supposed to make her inaccessible and her impossible demands and quiet tantrums are supposed to make you hate her, but they don't. Ms. Streep mines sympathetic qualities from a character who's not supposed to have them, making her human in her monstrosity. Miranda is the Godfather in high heels. You find yourself appalled by her at first, then in awe, then just appalled that anyone would think they could get by with crossing her.
Comedic roles are often ignored by the Oscars, but I have hopes that Johnny Depp's nomination for Jack Sparrow indicates a change in this area. If Meryl Streep doesn't receive her xteenth nomination this year, there'll be much wailing and gnashing of teeth from this critic.
Ms. Streep has the power to make you believe anything she says. Miranda's last significant line of dialogue is uttered just before she pastes a superior smile on her face and steps into a crowd of photographers. She turns to Andy and whispers, "Everybody wants to be us."
And at that moment, despite all she'd done and all the her frailties, she was right.
