The Devil Wears Prada may name-check trendy Manolo Blahnik and Jimmy Choo, but its tale of publishing industry bitchery and one naif’s dawning realization that personal integrity is more important than professional success is fashioned on countless, better corporate ladder-related women’s pictures. Tailored to appeal to those who enjoy gawking at designer clothes and accessories while chuckling at über-bitches’ lacerating put-downs of others – in other words, to Sex and the City devotees – regular Sex director David Frankel’s adaptation of Lauren Weisberger’s tell-all novel isn’t so much awful as simply mediocre, its narrative foundation unoriginal and its infatuation with groan-worthy insults and diva-like behavior exasperating. As Miranda Priestley, the demanding and mean editor-in-chief of Runway magazine (modeled after Vogue’s Anna Wintour), Meryl Streep never raises her voice while acting like the world’s coldest authoritarian, but her silent-but-deadly nastiness, while imperial, is so over-the-top that her performance never transcends its cartoonishness. Frankel means for Miranda to be deliciously evil, yet instead Streep’s queen bee – as with her arrogant assistant Emily (Emily Blunt) – remains throughout merely the repulsive epitome of power-mad narcissism, her pathetic belief that she’s the end-all, be-all exemplified by her speech about how everyone’s fashion choices ultimately stem from the oh-so-very valuable decisions of the fashion magazine elite. Naturally, Anne Hathaway’s unstylish intern Andy Sachs initially finds Miranda’s professional conduct unpleasant before being seduced by the milieu’s glitz and glamour, a development that involves being coached by her token gay sidekick (Stanley Tucci’s Nigel), seduced by a charming New Yorker journalist (Simon Baker), and turning her back on her grilled-cheese cook boyfriend (Adrian Grenier). However, just as Miranda and Emily’s routine wears thin almost as soon as it begins, Andy’s enlightening personal journey is worn-out from the start, partly because the heroine’s every decision is at odds with her inherent character, and partly because her inability to immediately realize that her work environment is vacuous marks her as an unsympathetic idiot. I know, I know, it’s all just supposed to be a sleek, sexy fantasy decked out in jaw-dropping gowns and chic high heels. Yet without a single tolerable protagonist or amusingly malicious one-liner – as well as a hypocritical desire to celebrate the hideous Miranda while supposedly condemning her – The Devil Wears Prada primarily makes one pine for any comparable ‘50s working-girl comedy (or, for that matter, 1988’s Working Girl).