Here’s the good news, people; despite the worrying title, Gillian McKeith is not in this film. What we’ve got here is a case of artistic licence; the Devil of the title is not the narcissistic nutritionist, but Miranda Priestley, the editor-in-chief of the fictional Runway magazine.

A “legend” in the fashion world. A woman who can bring down a designer’s entire line with a single purse of her lips. A woman who expects her assistants to read her mind despite the fact that she can’t be bothered to remember more than one of their names. And there are only two of them.

Shaking the idea that an intelligent young woman like Anne Hathaway’s character Andrea Sachs would tolerate such an insufferable employer is key to enjoying this satirical comedy. Given that she wants to be a journalist it’s quite a suspension of disbelief that she would endure the abuse associated with the “job a million girls would kill for” because to do so will apparently open doors all over new New York. But we’ll get back to that. Let’s talk about the fun stuff.

Mainly, what’s good here is the cast. It’s easy to imagine that when Lauren Weisberger’s novel was optioned for a feature, the call went out that Meryl Streep would be needed to play the titular harridan, simply because anyone else attempting that level of glacial callousness would just remind you of Meryl Streep. Technically flawless as ever, she effortlessly blows everyone else off the screen. Everyone except Stanley Tucci, who is an absolute delight – his bitchy mannerisms might be expected but are always hilarious. Also outstanding is young Brit Emily Blunt, both verbally and physically funny, and visually absolutely stunning. One to watch. Intently.

The Devil Wears Prada is unclear as to what it is; not too funny to be a drama and not funny enough to be a comedy, yet it is enjoyable, and just as slick and glossy as a copy of Heat magazine.

Anne Hathaway holds her own remarkably well against this class ensemble, anchoring the film and appearing in practically every scene. Going back to my earlier beef, her character arc somehow manages to be both predictable and confusing. Her principles veer off her original path (bonus points for use of the phrase “You’re going over to the dark side”) as she becomes consumed by the glamour of the job, caring more about her Satanic boss than the lifelong boyfriend she forgets about as soon as a handsome journalist buys her dinner, then suddenly switching back following a less-than-convincing moment of clarity. What was it Groucho Marx said? “Those are my opinions. If you don’t like them, I have others.”

Obviously this is the only place you’re likely to see that comparison drawn. This is the sort of film it’s hard to imagine getting more than 7 out of 10 in any review outside of Heat magazine, who presumably think this is the new Star Wars. It’s unclear exactly where it’s going; it’s not a rom-com ‘cos there’s no sense of romantic pursuit, it’s too funny to be a drama and not funny enough to be a comedy, and it’s not quite scathing enough to count as a satire. But it is very enjoyable, and just as slick, glossy, superficial and pleasing to the eye (Hathaway and Blunt especially) as the industry in which, as Tucci sarcastically observes, “what really counts… is INNER beauty”. It doesn’t do anything more or less than you’d expect, and as such you already know if this is for you. And if it is, The Devil Wears Prada is a good night out with the other half. Or failing that, your gay best friend.