Poetic Film Review: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)

In Hollywood's world of glittering glam,
A satirical tale was promised, but in vain,
The Devil Wears Prada, a film so bland,
A critique of fashion, lost in its own land.

Based on Lauren Weisberger's novel of fame,
A story of an assistant, and the fashion game,
Anna Wintour's influence, a tyrant's reign,
Miranda Priestly, a character so arcane.

Anne Hathaway, the protagonist, a writer at heart,
Forces to work in fashion, her soul to depart,
Meryl Streep, a queen, with wit and charm,
A villainous editor, with a twisted arm.

Stanley Tucci, a gem, a comedic delight,
Nigel, the friendly assistant, a beacon of light,
Emily Blunt, a scene-stealer, with style and grace,
A colleague obsessed with fashion, a true rival to face.

A tale of transformation, of beauty and of art,
But lost in translation, a satire falls apart,
The film's intent to criticize, is undermined by its cheer,
A romantic comedy, devoid of wit and jeer.

Hollywood's ties with fashion, a common ground,
A critique of one, would harm the other's crown,
Problematic details, erased from view,
A film that could have been, reduced to a mere few.

Despite its flaws, a success it became,
A testament to its cast, with talent to proclaim,
A watchable film, but not a lasting mark,
The Devil Wears Prada, a missed opportunity, in the dark.

(Note: The review in its original form can be read here.)

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