I know I’m late to the fashion show, but I just saw
the movie, The
Devil Wears Prada, based on the book. It wasn’t on my list of “must see”
movies this summer, but I went because Matt and I took his granny to the
movies, and that is what she wanted to see. I love Meryl Streep and Stanley
Tucci, so even though the topic wasn’t of great interest to me, the great
actors were.
Straight up, there were 2 reasons; I had
no desire to see this movie. First, I have worked for a boss(es) from hell, and
I just don’t feel the need to relive that. And second, I knew this story was
about the vicious, shallowness of the fashion industry. I personally don’t read
magazines like Vogue Runway because it just reeks of pretentiousness, and
fake-itude. The vainglorious fumes from the magazine make me pukish. To me,
this “art”, Miranda calls it, is what fuels our “not-enoughness.” It fuels
vanity in ways that make us shallow. Beauty does matter and is lovely, but it
does not make us better human beings. And that is what I hate most about the
fashion rags, their message is that the more beautiful you are, by our
standards, the better you are as a person.
Now don’t get me wrong. I like to look
at pretty bags, shoes, and baubles, just like any self-respecting girly-gurl,
but the standard of beauty, for humans, these fashionistas push behind the
pretty purse or skirt is just obnoxious. I don’t want to look at a $1900 bag
hanging off the arm of a bag of bones with an ad telling me that I’ll be “in”
because I’m parading this trendy bag by xyz frou-frou designer. It’s a purse
for crying out loud, not a cure for cancer or global warming. And, for the life
of cream cheese, what is so glamorous about looking like an anorexic, coke
whore, with zombie eyes. The thing about almost all the models in these couture
rags is that they have “dead” eyes. There’s no glimmer or spark like someone
who is really alive.
Watching The Devil Wears Prada was
horrifying to me. I’d hide under my sweater when Miranda would spew her venom.
Some lines that stick in my craw, include:
Miranda to Andy (a size 6 in
the beginning):
“I decided to take a chance and hire the smart, fat girl.”
Emily to Andy:
“I’m one stomach flu away from my goal weight.”
Nigel to Andy:
“Size 0 is the new 4….Size 6 is the new 14.”
Hell, I’m just going to dive into my
bucket of popcorn and drown myself in the pools of artificial butter cause
there’s no way I'm starving, and depriving myself just to fit into a size 2, or
4, or 6, or…..wait. Can I put Prada on my pizza?