The organized narcissism that is fashion once found film to be a willing venue. Far too many movies were simply celluloid runways employing living hangers rather than actors. Even some great films were often stopped in their tracks for a fashion show, such as George Cukor's scathing The Women, a black-and-white feature that suddenly turns Technicolor when the models march in.

But in our slovenly age of distressed jeans, T-shirts and whore-wear, there hasn't been much of a call for the allure one finds in Allure. There was Robert Altman's dull, star-heavy Pret-á-Porter a few years back. But nothing else has really focused on the world of fashion, or has even used it as an effective backdrop, such as in The Eyes of Laura Mars. Fashion, however many magazines it sells, hasn't been much in vogue in contemporary Hollywood.

A fresh graduate from Northwestern, Andrea (Andy) Sachs comes to Manhattan to work as a journalist. Like most everyone with a dream of conquering New York City, she's going nowhere fast, but finally gets a job offer as an office assistant at Runway magazine. Knowing nothing about fashion, or of the magazine's infamous ice-queen editor, Amanda Priestly, the Sears-frocked Andy appears for an interview.

Priestly is the high priestess of couture, and never suffers another human being gladly. She terrorizes her staff with an unending repertory of insults ("Bore someone else with your questions"), as well as with her capricious demands ("Find me that piece of paper I had in my hand yesterday morning"). Perhaps her most chilling response to someone's existence is a terse "That's all." Andy enters like a mink to the slaughter.

Runway is a wasp's nest of bitchery and back-stabbing. When not cowering in the presence of Amanda, the staff is busily mapping their future on someone else's back. As Andy isn't initially interested in fashion, or of making Runway her life, she has a way of ignoring the personal abuse directed at her, primarily from the "clackers" (so called by the tapping of their stilettos on tile floors). This attitude may actually facilitate her undesired rise in fortune.

David Frankel's take on The Devil Wears Prada is a breezy romp through this runway world. Though the film, as with the book, has an all-too predictable romantic subplot, it's marvelously successful at capturing this very insular and ego-driven subculture.

While her voice can often go through your head like a nail, Anne Hathaway is ideal as the pert grad who suddenly finds herself surrounded by prima donnas of both genders. Her transformation from sweatshop knockoffs to Chanel finery is expertly achieved, so much so that a part of you wishes she'd abandon her scruples and become the junior Miss Priestly.

The supporting cast is equally fine, particularly Stanley Tucci as the campily vicious Nigel, Amanda's right-hand man. His first reaction to Andy is hardly welcoming — "Are we doing a before-and-after piece I don't know about?" — but prescient. He'll be the primary force behind Andy's attainment of glamour.

However, it's Meryl Streep who commands the film, something the actress is seldom capable of achieving. Streep's typically cold, technical approach to her work actually finds the perfect role to inhabit here. Her Amanda is happily not the Gorgonesque sketch of Vogue's former editor, Anna Wintour, that appears in Weisberger's book. Streep's Priestly is, of course, imperious and a master of the withering look and crumpling upper lip. But there's also a surprising lightness that Streep brings to her character, making for a more human and less saurian portrait. Leaving aside the awful Prime, this has been a good year for Streep, both in this and in the otherwise slipshod A Prairie Home Companion.