If the first The Devil Wears Prada film was a piece of luxury tailoring, its dialogue as crisp and precise as the trouser crease in a freshly pressed tuxedo, the sequel is the high-street knock-off. It’s perfectly serviceable. If you’re not paying attention, you may not notice much of a difference. But will it wear as well as the first film? Will we still be returning to it in 20 years’ time? Almost certainly not. Any brief popularity will hinge instead on its superficial similarities to the other, better work.
It is two decades since the last picture and both the fashion and media industries have changed dramatically. Runway magazine, the bible of high fashion where editor-in-chief Miranda Priestly (Meryl Streep) stills reigns supreme, has been stripped back to a largely online operation. Budgets have been brutally slashed. Miranda has been reduced to flying economy; brushing shoulders with style untouchables and people who – God forbid! – travel in leisure wear. Now a crisis looms, as Miranda has inadvertently endorsed a fast fashion company with, it turns out, extremely dubious labour practices.
Meanwhile, Andy Sachs (Anne Hathaway), the cardigan-wearing aspiring writer , has gone from Miranda’s second assistant to award-winning feature writer at a weighty publication, the New York Vanguard. Unfortunately, the Vanguard is going through its own cost-cutting. A bruising corporate restructure means that Andy is fired by text message. Somewhat implausibly, the owner of Runway’s parent company decides that the best way to restore its credibility is to hire a recently laid-off reporter from a news and current affairs publication as its features editor. And so Andy finds herself facing her old boss and nemesis once again.
The world has moved on but some things never change. Miranda, with her face like an immaculately made-up chisel, is still a tyrant who terrifies all who encounter her. And Streep, once again, is delicious in the role, wearing her disdain ostentatiously like a mink stole. Andy’s outfits are slightly more put-together than before, but still accessorised with gauchely visible emotion and terribly unchic enthusiasm.
Meanwhile Emily (Emily Blunt, gifted with most of the funniest lines) has moved on from Runway and is now lording it over her former colleagues in an executive role at Dior. But deep down, she wants nothing more than approval (or what passes for it) from her former boss. The magazine’s fashion director Nigel Kipling (Stanley Tucci) remains in Miranda’s shadow; his waspish affection for Andy is undimmed.
There’s an argument that what fans want from a sequel is something as familiar and comfortable as an old pair of slippers. But surely cosiness here is not the point?
There’s an argument that what fans want from a sequel is something as familiar and comfortable as an old pair of slippers. But surely cosiness here is not the point?
The plot’s structure is largely unchanged from the first film: Miranda sets an unfeasible task for Andy who somehow manages to pull it off. Buoyed by her success in an elite industry, Andy risks losing touch with her own values. The team attends a European fashion week, this time in Milan; celebrity cameos abound (Lady Gaga, Donatella Versace, to name the most eye-catching); beautifully clad backs are stabbed. The fashionistas finally show grudging appreciation for Andy, the normie among them.
There’s an argument that what fans want from a sequel is something that feels as familiar and comfortable as an old pair of slippers. But this is The Devil Wears Prada – surely cosiness is not the point? The astringent savagery of the first film has been watered down. There’s even, in Miranda’s affable musician boyfriend (Kenneth Branagh), an attempt to smooth the stiletto-sharp edges of her character. This only diminishes the already depleted dramatic jeopardy. In the first film, Andy was a nobody with everything to lose; her career could be destroyed by one of her boss’s whims. Here, she’s a garlanded professional journalist with two decades of experience. The stakes are lower, even without the partial rehabilitation of the Devil herself.
With the original director David Frankel returning again, the film does at least look the part. Sweeping drone shots find every last photogenic angle of the lavish locations (New York, Milan, Lake Como). Molly Rogers’s standout costumes walk the delicate line between enviably fabulous and utterly ridiculous. But, as this film proves, style isn’t everything.
Photograph by 20th Century Studios
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