The Devil Wears Prada

There is enormous scope for a film that interrogates the fashion industry from the perspective of youth. Sadly, TDWP is not the new black. Certainly, the dialogue has a few feisty moments but nothing that will make the Ugly Betty writers lose any sleep. It’s impossible to sympathise with the protagonist, whose PA job is not nearly as awful as it is made out to be; so she has to get a steak which her boss then doesn’t eat? Boo hoo. Anne’s drippy chef boyfriend is so pathetic he isn’t trusted to speak more than four words consecutively; instead we are offered laboured visual clues ‘proving’ his worthiness, such as the fact that he makes her grilled cheese sandwiches after work. Blimey, if my boyfriend was a proper chef and then made me that fourth-rate crap, he’d be next on the Breville. As for the moment when Anne tosses her phone into the fountain… If one of my eight year old tutees came up with that scenario I’d scoff and tell her to ditch it immediately. Proof if it were needed that even a great premise and Meryl Streep can't make up for fundamentally lazy writing and unoriginal direction. Disappointing.

The X Factor: The Final

Really, I should hate The X Factor even more than The Secret Millionaire. By definition, talent shows celebrate the extraordinary, planting the idea that to be entertaining is valuable while normalcy is failure. These programmes have spawned the disease which has infected countless young people: spotlightis. Victims grow up believing that fame is a panacea. Being snapped continually by paparazzi, walking comfortably down a red carpet, being as accustomed to the noise of screaming fans as most of us are to the sound of our breathing – these are their right. A normal life becomes a botched life, working hard for little recognition seems pointless, an existence without famous friends is futile. I was like this as a teen and sadly there’s still a part of the old addict that resurfaces every so often.

The X Factor final was trite, melodramatic, terrible television but over ten million of us watched Leon triumph deservedly and I’m sure even more of us will witness the next victory in 2008. Slag it off all you like; feel superior, tut and then switch on Dispatches – but the pantomime season is upon us and there are certainly worse ways to spend a Saturday night.

The Secret Millionaire

The entire premise of The Secret Millionaire (Channel 4, Wednesdays, 9pm) is questionable: a fantastically wealthy person goes back to their roots, adopts an undercover persona of someone ‘normal’ (read: impoverished), connects with the local community and then, at the end of the show, reveals his/her true identity and hands over a random amount of money to those who are deemed to be worthy of such assistance. Could there be a more blatant advertisement for capitalism than this programme? “Oh, look at the Poor People with their awful lives, let’s throw money at them: that will make it all better because cash solves all woes.” The Poor People respond as if to a script – speechless with heart-breaking gratitude that someone has chosen to help them for no reason other than ‘because they needed help’. It’s over-simplistic, arbitrary and I’m afraid that I absolutely love it. I revel in the millionaires’ discomfort as they rough it, wince at their lack of awareness regarding the perceived hopelessness of so many people’s lives, and – yes – I well up when the cheques are handed over. Like binge drinking, money doesn’t solve life’s bigger issues, but a burst every now and then can be entertaining.

Winter Wonderland

The approach to Hyde Park’s Winter Wonderland is unquestionably special: an avenue of magnificent trees dripping with scarlet lights leads past ‘London’s biggest temporary ice-rink’ to the blinding white of the 50m observation wheel. Clustered around the periphery, the quaint German market is equally alluring from sixty paces but on closer inspection, the selection of Christmas decorations appears less than authentic and I remain unconvinced that Haribo stalls are staples of traditional Deutsche fayres. It’s rare that I leave a shopping opportunity sans purchase but the only tempting item was a reindeer hide that I rejected on both moral and transportation grounds.

We didn’t escape without spending any of our hard-earned coinage, however: a £7 foray onto the self-proclaimed Wheel of Excellence had its highs and lows – we loved the high-tech cabin complete with air-con and lighting controls but seeing the Millennium Eye in the distance reminded us what we were missing – and our £3 red sausages were tasty but the meat:bun ratio was disappointing. Somehow we managed to resist the terrifying Haunted House. As an inexpensive festive outing, the Winter Wonderland is worth a meander – but if it’s the feature event of your Christmas, you might require some sympathy.

The French House, Soho

The bright bar downstairs is a delightful melange of bad pop art, complimentary olives and chesty barmaids who look like extras from Les Mis, with a sardined clientele who are still visibly livid about the smoking ban. But walk upstairs into the mirrored dining room and you’ll find an altogether different atmosphere: a handful of quiet tables, fantastic waiters and an air of refinement not in evidence three metres below.

The menu was the perfect length: the vegetarian selection was slightly lameass but I suppose that’s to be expected in a French restaurant. My pork was tasty although I won’t be ordering black pudding stuffing again in a hurry; my friend’s salmon looked nice but predictable. While the main courses lacked creativity, the desserts menu looked like an LSD trip in comparison. I had the apple and pecan crumble served with rum and raisin ice cream and white chocolate sauce, but like a good When Harry Met Sally fan, I ditched the two accompaniments and had it à la mode instead – much better.

Admittedly there were no fantastic surprises but there were no nasty shocks either and as a safe bet in Soho, The French House has it sorted.

Michael Clayton

Since his beginnings as an ER doc, George Clooney has developed a bit of a reputation for meaningful movie-making, consistently releasing message-filled flicks such as Syriana and Good Night and Good Luck. Michael Clayton is another feature with a moral story to tell – sadly it’s one we’ve heard before: an underdog (Tom Wilkinson) spots the evil in a big multinational farming company but no one will believe him and a struggling Clooney has to find a way to save the day – think Erin Brokovitch minus breasts.

To compensate for the wan plot, the desperate screenwriters decided to liven things up by messing with the chronology. I anxiously await the day when will this cheap smoke ‘n’ mirrors ploy becomes as transparent and derided as it should be. Added to that irritation, there were far too many random plot elements – the bizarre horse stand-off, the wayward brother, the poker addiction… And what was the bit about the children’s book? Red herring or just a load of carp?

Plot aside, the acting, camerawork and cinematography were all undeniably strong and other audience members were clearly captivated. Overall, a fair effort but undeniably a disappointing non-addition to the Clooney/Soderbergh canon.

Sway, Covent Garden

When I’ve visited Sway’s bar in the past it has always been heaving so I was surprised to find a near-empty restaurant and similarly startled when I saw the menu. For such a central location, the prices were unusually low: around £6 for a burger, Caesar salad or fish and chips. Sure, the choices were uninspiring but with an additional 50% off all food deal, courtesy of toptable.co.uk, it felt a bit like eating in Primark – so cheap, it seemed churlish not to buy one of everything.

In the end, we ordered six tapas for £10 (should’ve been £20). The deep fried element was disappointing; we left most of our tempura ‘king’ prawns which were about as regal as a night out in Basildon, but we loved the humous, and the halloumi and grilled tomato skewers were a definite highlight.

The faintly disturbing WCs are worth a mention – as grotty as they come, finished off with a vase of tall, crumbling flowers that were so dead they’d started to smell. For a bargain bite pre-cinema, Sway was spot on, but if you’re a serious foodie or lean towards OCD when it comes to public facilities, stay away.

The Darjeeling Limited

Wes Anderson’s back catalogue is both impressive and a fraction weird, which, in this time of indentikit dross, is a splendid combo. Rushmore was interesting, The Royal Tenenbaums was striking and The Life Aquatic With Steve Zizzou was gorgeous but conceptually a bit too strange for my rigid imagination. Happily, The Darjeeling Limited, Anderson’s latest offering, is the best so far – by far.

Set in a somewhat romanticised north of India, the film sees three unlikely brothers taking a journey in search of spiritual contentment following the death of their father. All three of the leads perform exceptionally well but Owen Wilson deserves particular praise for his unapologetic personification of a manic control freak while Adrien Brody’s wonderful face deserves an Oscar in its own right. Natalie Portman’s cameo is predictably breath-taking and the use of Peter Sarstedt’s classic ballad is superb; the only slightly jarring moment was the otherwise enviable script’s final line which descended into unexpected Joey-and-Chandler-esque schmaltz.

Visually arresting, extremely funny and awash with men who are wonky but mouth-watering: what’s not to like? I haven’t enjoyed a film this much for aeons and recommend it with the proviso that you replicate my low expectations on arrival.