Trying to recreate the magic and, crucially, box office success of beloved iconic films is, as Tommy C might say, Risky Business. For every triumph like his Top Gun reboot, there is Grease 2, Speed 2, Matrix Resurrections and Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny. The usual formula is to stick close to the original format, retreading the plot and character dynamics. This film seemed to be doing that to such an eyebrow-raising (if I hadn’t had Botox) extent that I started predicting upcoming twists. But thankfully, as with the 2006 original, The Devil Wears Prada 2 slyly, if rather lightly, subverts expectations.
Crucially for our fab foursome, as with so much else in life, the media landscape has radically changed. Even the highest-profile glossy magazines have been sidelined, as the film says, for online content people scroll past while they pee. Yet, we are undeniably living in an age when appearances and prestige are more important than ever. Our algorithms and our own posts may be too often filled with vacuous performative soul-enriching platitudes, but we still basically want to look at pretty shiny things. Andy (Anne Hathaway) did all the heavy lifting for us 20 years ago, revelling in the luxe life before walking away and staying true to herself, something we like to believe we would also do (but secretly doubt). Two decades later, she still worthily works for a crusading publication and lives in a small apartment with brown tap water. And then, in one fell swoop that is far too painfully close to home for many of us, mass redundancies strike.
Andy is parachuted into a Runway Magazine that is in deep trouble, with readers and advertisers jumping ship after Miranda (Meryl Streep) unknowingly endorsed a label that uses sweatshop labour. We meet the new ‘Emily’ (Bridgeton’s Simone Ashley, delightfully deadpan in an underwritten role), and a Miranda as deliciously dismissive and a Nigel (Stanley Tucci) as drily sweet as ever. Best of all, they have to go to Dior, cap in hand, to negotiate desperately needed advertising from a gloriously Imperious Emily, with Blunt gloriously relishing every shallow smackdown and flex. From there, it’s pretty much business as usual, power plays and machinations set against a machine gun barrage of one-liners. Now, every time someone is late to a get-together, I shall gleefully steal Miranda’s withering, “Where is she? Has she been human trafficked?”
Emily’s fabulous verbal spat in Italian with Donatella Versace is worth the price of admission alone. It all looks absolutely stunning, a breathtaking array of parties and outfits, everywhere from The Hamptons to Lake Como and Milan. Film, TV and stage so rarely get high fashion right but this never puts a flawless foot wrong, highlighted by a cameo from Zendaya’s stylist Law Roach, alongside Heidi Klum, Lady Gaga and more. Lucy Liu’s a billionaire divorcee, Justin Theroux’s a hoot as her dumb tech bro ex, and Kenneth Branagh pops up in the last place I’d expect him. The film even gives Andy another Aussie love interest, but shows her and our maturity by replacing slickly gorgeous Simon Baker with the rather more lovely Patrick Brammall.
As before, the shenanigans build towards another last-minute plot twist. It’s all huge fun with a decidedly softer centre than the original that’s filled with one-liners, fulfilment, redemption and catharsis for all concerned. This could certainly be smell-tested for frommage, but then we live in harsher, uncertain times today, and frankly, nobody should begrudge any of us a little comfort. Beautifully filmed with a sharp but rather safe script elevated by a stellar cast, this is the chick flick equivalent of Project Hail Mary, with bonus takeaway one liners. That’s all.
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