Having spent one cold, stormy winter of my youth fetching coffee and shuffling faxes at a fashion magazine whose name you would know, I was interested to see what details The Devil Wears Prada would get right. Beyond that, there were no expectations. I never picked up the popular book and couldn't tell you if realism was one its selling points, or even if the actual, biblical Lucifer was Meryl Streep's latest character. Turns out the fallen angel never makes an appearance, but this movie does demand a huge suspension of disbelief from us right off the bat. We are supposed to go along with its assertion that Andrea, the green gamine played by the fetching Anne Hathaway, is "fat." This charge is laid against her specifically and repeatedly throughout the film. Since she never gives the obvious retort, I'll give it: What are the clues that identify her as obese? The waistline that would turn storefront mannequins green with envy? The shoulder blades that seem ready to punch through her skin? The arms that could be mistaken for Pixy Sticks? Lest we think the movie is kidding, there's even a Personal Triumph Moment that comes in the third act, when Andrea thrills her aerodynamic colleague Stanley Tucci with the news that she has dropped a dress size. Instead of quickly administering a jelly doughnut and phoning for an ambulance, he squeals with satisfaction.