Wonderful films are rarely made from mediocre books although the reverse is often true, and even actors with a track record for picking good material can’t pick ‘em all the time. Meryl Streep’s controlled dragon lady in the persona of boss-from-hell Miranda Priestly is the chief reason for the modest appeal of this screen version of the best selling book of the same name. The world of high fashion is viewed from the corridors of Runway magazine with a jaundiced eye.

The opening shots detail how different kinds of women dress. The Prada/Versace/Armani/ wearers move as though they have an audience while dressing alone in the privacy of their own apartments. The frumpy ones, like Andy (Anne Hathaway) dress for a job interview with all the care of getting ready for the gym.  When Miranda condescendingly chooses to hire Andy, "the smart, fat girl," because so many stylish second assistants have disappointed her, it is tough going from there on out to accept the whole mean spirited muddle that follows.

Miranda, powerful editor, mover, shaker and tyrant of the self important world of fashion (she thinks Madison Avenue actually invented the color blue), makes reporting to Sigourney Weaver’s Katharine Parker (Working Girl) look like a walk in the park. Andy is an unlikely Cinderella as she decides to tough out the job in hopes of landing a better one, unceremoniously dumping her friends along the way. With the help of art director and fairy godfather Nigel (Stanley Tucci), all of a sudden she’s trotting around in any one of about six dozen $3,000.outfits borrowed from the magazine’s dressing room and people are taking notice.

Amid the chaos of 7th avenue, the driving beat of the score, and fast pace of the magazine, Tucci has a few deliciously biting barbs, artfully delivered, and Emily Blunt tries to find the irony, but there is precious little humor in this satire.  Some of the reasons being that there is too much Andy, too little of the devil, and no prince charming. After changing clothes more times than you can shake a stick at, Andy jettisons her nice guy boyfriend as easily as she discards her old corduroy jacket and morphs into a Prada wearing younger version of her boss.

All things considered, this jumble about a slew of unpleasant people, name dropping, and snide coworkers lacks what the protagonist also lacks: heart. Miranda's acts of tyranny seem motivated by something even Streep's subtle performance can’t get at. We assume she's taking her regret over her out-of-balance life out on the nearest target and Streep’s sense of understatement serves her well. She sets Andy one impossible task after another evidently to prove to herself that she alone is irreplaceable.  The most striking transformation comes not from Hathaway and her makeover, but when Miranda has her moment of vulnerability in a drab gray robe and no make up.

Business betrayals, selling out, questionable life choices, and back stabbing peppered with a few clever laughs fail to give the film the heart it needs to allow us to care about the characters. Director David Frankel’s television background on such shows as Sex in the City serves this type of New York project well but the audacious notion in the subtext that all little Midwesterners want to grow up to be Leona Hemsley/Donald Trump/ Miranda Priestly, self-possessed and heartless, gives successful women everywhere a bad name.