The Devil Wears Prada is like an extended episode of Sex in the City in which Carrie contemplates how women lie to themselves to get ahead. That’s not to say men don’t. They do. But Prada, like Sex, is about women in New York and Prada like Sex, is directed by David Frankel. Based on a book by Lauren Weisberger, it lays bare the world of high-fashion through a young woman trying it on for size. Andy hopes to be a journalist and sees time at Runway magazine as one way to get there. In a universe ruled by the ice-cold eyebrows of couture’s satanic mistress, she will require all the Mid-West goodness she can muster to beat the fear generated by fiendish editor, Miranda Priestly.

Prada is a new-millennium variant on Working Girl with Streep stepping in for Sigourney Weaver. It has laughter and tears, stereotypes and clichés. We know Andy will turn to the devil: “You sold your soul the day you put on your first pair of Jimmy Choos,” says one character. We know she’ll have a Pygmalion meltdown then claw back decency with intervention from her unfashionable boyfriend. Such inevitability would fall off its high-heels without Streep’s seasoned presence: she refuses to demonise the monstrous Priestly and gives the film an undeserved jab of credibility. Admirable support from Emily Blunt as her terrified assistant helps us jump predictable hurdles. While The Devil Wears Prada should strike a chord with desperate fashionistas and young women treading warily into the workforce, the rest of us will be just as happy with re-runs of Sex in the City.

// COLIN FRASER