“The Devil Wears Prada” is hands down the best American comedy released in 2006 so far. Sharp, observant, witty and full of moments of outright hilarity that left me speechless, it also features a titanic tour de force performance from Meryl Streep, one of Hollywood’s first lady’s of cinema in an Oscar-worthy portrayal that left me giddily dumfounded.

Based on the best selling novel by Lauren Weisberger, the film concerns Northwestern graduate Andrea “Andy” Sachs (Anne Hathaway, “The Princess Diaries”), a journalism major who takes a job as an assistant to the most powerful woman in fashion, Runway Magazine editor Miranda Priestly (Streep, “Adaptation”). Miranda rules over fashion with an iron fist, making and breaking careers with the nod of the head or a raise of the eyebrows. She’s a demon in designer clothing, and nothing Andy’s ever done in her life has prepared her for the sheer volume of hell this woman is about to drag her through.

Soon the young wannabe journalist realizes that to make it as Miranda’s assistant is going to take more than just delivering the woman’s coffee piping hot or being able to answer the phone by the second ring. While she’s completely wrong for the job (the girl doesn’t know Dolce from Gabbana let alone what part of the body a Manolo goes on to) but she absolutely refuses to fail, figuring out that a girl that can survive a year working for Ms. Priestly is a girl that can write her own ticket to any publication in the country.

What Andy doesn’t realize is that success comes with a price. With the help and friendship of the magazine’s fashion guru Nigel (a brilliant Stanley Tucci) the girl transforms herself into just the kind of stiletto-clacking fashionista she once despised. Now Andy knows her Gucci, adores her Versace and wouldn’t be caught dead without wearing her Jimmy Choo’s. But this transformation comes at a price, and soon she can’t help but wonder if the price of living Miranda’s fabulous life is one far too high for her to be willing to pay.

Let’s not mince words. I loved this movie. “The Devil Wears Prada” may not have anything all that new to say; beauty comes within, real friendship takes work, material things do not bring happiness, etc., etc.; but it is phenomenally funny. There is real wit, razor sharp slice your wrists in half with a machete wit, here, and it stings and cuts so brilliantly I think I spent the first twenty minutes of the movie sitting in the theater with my jaw hitting the floor dumfounded. This is one of those movies you just don’t see coming, a flick sure to be another in a long line of sappy chick flick syrupy gooiness that you on initial glance don’t give a passing thought about.

But this is not that movie. The mores it’s presenting may be tired and cliché, but it does so with so much energy and verbose cleverness you can’t help but stand up and applaud. Director David Frankel (a man behind such HBO successes like “Entourage” and “Sex and the City”) handles it all with devilish glee, assuredly maneuvering through the more tired corners of Aline Brosh McKenna’s (“Laws of Attraction”) otherwise solid screenplay with expert comedic precision. He makes a smooth transition from small screen to large, guiding this film to the finish line with such confident grace I couldn’t help but be suitably impressed.

Without Streep, of course, none of this would remotely matter because she is the dynamic glue gleefully holding even the most tiresome elements of the picture together with her demanding take-no-prisoners performance. But not over the top, the actress refusing to make Miranda a hissy-fit she-devil beheading assistants with her verbiage. Instead, this is a controlled, icy, methodical performance, one that makes those sitting in the audience tremble with fear every time the editor dismisses someone with a quiet, almost polite, “That’s all.” Yet Streep does what the book didn’t and that’s make Miranda a human being, a look here and glance there more than enough to make you realize that the cost of the life she’s chosen to live hasn’t been completely missed by the meticulous fashion spinning dynamo.

The rest of the cast adds solid support but this is, without a doubt, Streep’s show beginning to end. Still, Hathaway continues to mature nicely, her rapport with the Oscar-winning legend surprisingly strong. I also liked Adrian Grenier (star of Frankel’s “Entourage”), as Andy’s low maintenance boyfriend) and Simon Baker (“Something New”), as a successful writer smitten by the girl’s charms, quite a bit, but it was Emily Bunt (“My Summer of Love”) who really knocked my socks off. Playing Miranda’s clotheshorse first assistant Emily, she’s a ball of ever-tightening gut wrenching supercilious energy and I just loved the way she kept reacting to Andy’s transformation from meek to chic. She’s wonderful, and if I had my way Frankel would have used a heck of a lot more of her than he does.

I could nitpick. The movie is a bit too long and it doesn’t end quite as well as I would have liked. While the for the most part the director eschews letting the film’s emotions play out like a VHI music video, there is one montage at about the midpoint I really could have done without. But these are all minor when taking in the picture as a whole. I laughed, a lot, and it started during the first scene and didn’t stop until the final credits started and the film faded to black. The Devil may indeed wear Prada, but in the case of this movie the only thing this melodious masterwork needs to be covered in is box office gold.