Now, I don’t like to be negative, especially so early in the year, but, if I’m going to review a book I need to do it honestly. I realise no-one has asked me to review this book, least of all the author (who is probably a perfectly nice individual who has achieved the not-insignificant task of getting her work published), but I’m going to review it anyway.
I’ve never seen the film. I’ve not avoided it; it’s just never entered my circle of experience. Despite developing such a strong dislike for the book, I would still like to watch it someday. I expect it works much better as a film, or at least it was made to work better. Interestingly, the film rights were picked up before the novel was even finished [1]. I’m not sure what that says but, on reflection, I don’t think it can be good.
So, what motivated me to experience such a disastrous book in the first place? I’m sure somewhere along the line I heard that The Devil Wears Prada was both clever and funny. I hung onto this belief until the very end but found it to be neither of these things. Having done a little bit of research after devoting thirteen and a half hours of my life to it (the words “horse” and “bolted” spring to mind) I discovered that it is considered to be chick lit. It seems so obvious now. When you read the synopses of Weisberger’s other novels they clearly have both feet firmly rooted in that genre. Now, I have nothing against chick lit. If that’s your bag then I’m not criticising you for it but it’s not mine and I was expecting something different. However, that wasn’t my only issue.
As a very swift overview of the plot, a young female graduate called Andy gets a job as a personal assistant for Miranda, editor-in-chief of Runway magazine, which sounds a lot like Vogue. Miranda is a nightmare to work for and has Andy running all sorts of unreasonable errands. That is pretty much it. And it is really boring. The detail with which the author describes such things as going on a coffee run is impressive yet also mind-numbing. As unusual as Andy’s job description is, regaling us with the minutiae of her daily routine is not a good enough substitute for a decent storyline. Much of the book is taken up with the extravagance of life at the magazine. I got the impression I was supposed to be awed or shocked by it but it barely interested me at all. It felt like a dull list of stuff. I didn’t care.
This leads me onto one of the things that bothered me most: the characters. Just a minor issue. Miranda has a lot going for her in literary terms. There’s one heck of a backstory there waiting to be uncovered. Is it? A tiny bit, at the very end. I didn’t feel her potential was ever realised. Some of the supporting cast are genuinely likeable but it’s Andy with whom we spend the most time. She is, at best, irritating and at worst, highly unlikeable. Let’s not take any prisoners here. I thought she was stupid. She spends the entire novel complaining about how terrible her job is but we are not given enough reason to have sympathy for her. She’s too annoying. Worst of all, she talks about making tea in a microwave. Not warming up cold tea. No, no. Making. A mug of tea. In a GODDAMN MICROWAVE! Unforgiveable.
Like I said, I expected this novel to be funny and clever. I now know that this was due to my own erroneous assumption so maybe my next point is not so valid. Not going to stop me from making it.
The drip-drip pace of the book leads the reader to think that something big is going to happen. Something real big. The gravity with which every incident is treated builds a sense of impending doom. The climax? (And yes, if I haven’t already ruined it for you, this certainly will.) Andy tells Miranda to F-off. Seriously? I waited hours for that. I thought some massive plot twist was coming. Surely Andy would impale Miranda, or at least crap in her bed. Poor, disappointed me.
I feel kind of bad unleashing such vitriol on someone else’s work. I can only assume that much of the content was autobiographical which makes this attack of mine seem unnecessarily personal. It’s only my opinion. Calling this post The Devil Wears Primark might be a dig too far but I just thought it rolled off the tongue quite nicely. Plus, I think it would have made for a more entertaining novel.
I do owe the author at least some thanks, if not an apology. She inspired me to write this review, which I have very much enjoyed. We obviously both like words.