Long ago, in a Manhattan that seems far, far away, a young woman from the common people entered a magical kingdom called Vogue and became Queen Wintour’s assistant. Eventually she escaped the clutches of her sovereign tormentor and wrote a roman à clef about her experiences. Names were changed and the story was officially classified as fiction. But everyone knew who was behind this “Miranda Priestly” – with her Hermès scarf and her sharp tongue. Also: industry rumors, Looks behind the scenes and pure, unadulterated schadenfreude sell books in huge quantities.
It’s worth remembering that Lauren Weisberger’s 2003 novel The Devil Wears Prada was originally intended as a literary reckoning – and when the film adaptation hit theaters in 2006, the era of celebrity editors and toxic workplaces was still in full swing. Not even that amazingly persistent trend called “the Internet” could dim the velvet-rope magic of a job at a major fashion magazine in the then-booming New York publishing industry. Poor Andy Sachs – portrayed by the Disney Princess-eyed Anne Hathaway – may have endured the verbal lashings of a boss who expected the world to do her bidding. But at least this junior assistant got free handbags and an impressive makeover. And a note to all filmmakers: If you want a villain to seem bossy and more than a pale copy of the original, cast Meryl Streep. There’s a reason why Miranda Priestly is one of the Oscar winner’s most popular roles and is in the hall of fame of film history as a villain.
This transformation from barely coded tell-all to celebration of the good, the bad, and the ugly that came with our heroine’s Faustian fashionista pact was already underway before the original became a contemporary document. Everyone loved this slice of cinematic comfort, and a sequel was inevitable sooner or later – but how do you conjure up a lost world while maintaining that sense of voyeuristic envy, that tingle that life-changing glamor is just a Chanel handle away?
Between nostalgia and decline
“The Devil Wears Prada 2” knows it has to walk a fine line: give the people what they want — snap, couture, glamour, the glory of a Stanley Tucci eye-roller — while acknowledging that a lot has happened in two decades. Welcome to 2026, where bullying assistants is an HR violation, billionaires buy up newspapers and publishers to pad their portfolios, and what we call journalism has died an existential death by a thousand clicks. Andy Sachs is now an award-winning investigative reporter, which doesn’t save her and her team from being fired via group text message. Miranda Priestly continues to run Runway, the faux Vogue of the Devil universe, but a scandal surrounding a toxic brand’s advertising copy forces her to endure the barrage of arrows from a sarcastic meme tsunami. All budgets were slashed. Everyone is desperately chasing metrics. How is a Machiavelli in Manolo Blahniks supposed to dictate taste in this tasteless environment?
When Andy’s impassioned acceptance speech at a NY Press Club event goes viral (“Journalism is fucking important!”), Runway chairman Irv Ravitz (Tibor Feldman) offers her a job as the magazine’s features editor. Miranda doesn’t remember her former assistant and is anything but enthusiastic about this dictate from above. Still, there are fires to put out, so the two travel to Dior with “Runways” fashion director Nigel Kipling (Tucci) to save advertising money. And who now runs the fashion house? Andy’s old nemesis and veteran among Priestly’s entourage: Emily Charlton (Emily Blunt). After all these years, she is as toxic as ever. Miranda continues to humiliate her subordinates – everyone who hasn’t run a magazine for 30 years – and forces Andy to take the subway back to the office. For shame! Nigel once again plays the saintly father figure with access to a gorgeous sample wardrobe. Plus ça change.
Andy begins assigning sophisticated features on important topics beyond spring accessories – none of which resonate with Runway readers. To do this, they strike a chord with Sasha Barnes (Lucy Liu), the newly divorced wife of billionaire uber-nerd Benji Barnes (Justin Theroux). Because she is the “holy grail of interviews” and thanks to Andy’s courage and grit she secures Sasha’s first official interview in years, our heroine scores a hit and narrowly avoids being fired. When they say goodbye, the philanthropist even throws them some juicy news as a farewell gift. The fact that the film then cuts back to the editorial team, where everyone is poring over pages without ever mentioning a social media plan, a digital breakthrough or the TikTok exploitation of the interview video – that reveals how much “Prada 2” is stuck in an idealized past.
Elon Musk sends his regards
[Ein kurzes Wort zu den Barnes: Wer dachte, Priestly sei eine dünn verschleierte Karikatur einer realen Person? Sagen wir es so: Es zeugt von bemerkenswerter Zurückhaltung seitens des Films, dass Sasha ihre Anti-Mobbing-Organisation nicht namentlich erwähnt und Benji nicht dabei gezeigt wird, wie er mit Katy Perry im Weltall herumtollt.]
From here, The Devil Wears Prada 2 shifts from flirting with topicality to fully embracing a balance of you-better-work escapism and doomscrolling. The fan service formula is in full swing, with callbacks galore and the same generically uptempo score that’s the sonic equivalent of a Frappuccino. (Although: The Lady Gaga Doechii song, recorded specifically for the film, is a stone-cold banger.) The chicest outfits continue to complement the most sophisticated clichés. Nostalgia for the days of standards and bullet-stopping September issues mixes with hand-wringing about the state of magazines, media companies and the entire environment that once sold the original as a fairy tale.
This time, Patrick Brammell’s Australian renovator replaces Adrian Grenier’s dreamboat chef as Andy’s romantic interest – and like Grenier’s character, he’s simply there to point out to Andy how much she’s fallen for the workaholic existence and the lure of privilege. Simon Baker’s smooth-talking veteran journalist is absent – we assume he’s long since been canceled – but we get BJ Novak as the jargon-spewing son of Ravitz in a tech-bro vest who has big plans for Runway 2.0. Backs are stabbed. Receipts will be issued. The good are rewarded, the long-suffering and faithful get their moment in the spotlight, and Judas is denied his thirty pieces of silver.
Streep is Streep
Director David Frankel knows that while familiarity may breed contempt in other areas of life, sequels – especially long-awaited ones to fan favorites – thrive on easy rehashing and repeating. We may hate the rich and privileged now, but there’s still a market for watching lobster lunches in the Hamptons, gala birthday parties for moguls, and seven minutes in heaven—read: Milan Fashion Week. Everyone involved gives the feeling of really wanting to be there, which is something that can’t be said about many late sequels. Hathaway gives Andy Sachs’ Ingénue version more bite without losing the sense of innocence and sincerity that makes her the ideal guide through this world. Tucci, who fortunately gets significantly more screen time here, has understood the task and plays the patron saint in the gilet with aplomb. The Alfa power among the two original “Emilys” remains a blunt instrument. Streep is Streep – and we can’t give her a higher compliment. A scene in which Priestly has to endure the indignity of hanging up her own coat (!) develops into a three-act comedy pantomime. In a just world, this sequence alone would be Streep’s [Notizen check] bring in four millionth Oscars.
But it shouldn’t surprise anyone if this second infusion leaves a slightly bittersweet aftertaste for your Sunday afternoon on the couch. For many viewers, The Devil Wears Prada 2 will be another sip of high-fashion wish fulfillment, a chance to once again gain access to an exclusive realm of air kisses and luxury brand window shopping. For journalists, this is a horror film – no matter how stylish and glamorous you make it out to be. Each victory gets the full “Prada” treatment while still being explicitly described as a Pyrrhic victory. No combination of stilettos and old-fashioned shoe sole research can console the fact that integrity, talent, hard work and seriousness about everything from fashion to the moving image are in constant danger of extinction.
So yes, this sequel has its moments. It may also serve as a sobering reminder to some of how change has no longer occurred at a snail’s pace since Andy Sachs first walked through the glass doors of Runway and learned the craft. Once upon a time, this sequel would have been the highlight of Fox’s cinematic year, grossing millions that would have been funneled into a wide range of other projects. Now it’s ultimately destined to be just another thumbnail on a streaming service, algorithmically sandwiched between a NatGeo documentary about penguins and a Star Wars or Marvel franchise entry. Oh, don’t act like that, some will say. That’s what everyone wants. Really?
