The Devil Wears Prada comes of age: 20 years later, burning bridges no longer lights the way

Access was never the issue. Falling prey to the luxury of that access was.

Meryl Streep and Anne Hathaway in The Devil Wears Prada 2.

With The Devil Wears Prada 2, neither the makers nor the characters dismiss the ground reality with a “That’s all,” but it questions what Meryl Streep’s Runway editor-in-chief so boastfully declares at the end of the first part — “Everybody wants to be us.” Well, do they? The landscape of journalism has changed drastically in the last 10 years, and more rapidly in the past five years. For them to treat Runway as a place wrapped in its candy-coated fur would’ve been possible — and more tempting — but certainly not true to the times.

Miranda Priestly’s entry scene in the sequel has her strike a pose on the red carpet, only to be whisked away into isolation by her team, alarmed by the news of a scandal coming out. This isn’t 2006, when iPhones are yet to be launched. Or the internet is still a luxury instead of the perennial, perilous alternate reality of today. A scandal isn’t just harmless watercooler talk, but a viral PR disaster with tangible consequences. Miranda can neither just eyeroll her way out of situations nor dump her problems on her hapless subordinates like haute couture coats on messy desks.

Meryl Streep and Anne Hathaway in a still from The Devil Wears Prada.

That’s why for Miranda, her caustic sense of humour is no longer a weapon of choice, but an armour for self-defence. She doesn’t fire shots like a machine gun on the loose, but picks her battles across advertisers, bosses, and subordinates. She goes from “that’s all” to “that’s all?” while negotiating with a luxury advertiser, has horror spelled over her face while travelling economy due to budget cuts enforced by a millennial boss, and contorts her body in unattainable ways to get her coat to the hook. Stomping her feet and dumping the coats on desk is a practice of the past, thanks to HR complaints of workplace harassment against her.

Clearly struggling to get upto speed with the woke police, she’s constantly reprimanded (through cautionary side-eyes and semi-audible clearing of throat) by her first assistant Amari (Simone Ashely) to not endorse inappropriate language and risk cancellation. “What can I not say?,” she asks, as confused as contemptuous. But all the persistent, polite niggles can’t discourage her from reserving her snarkiest barb for Amari herself, when she doesn’t show up on time — “Has she gotten human trafficked?” — even more brutal and undiplomatic than the casual “has she died?” remark she directed at Emily (Emily Blunt) in the first part.

Meryl Streep as Miranda Priestly in The Devil Wears Prada 2.

It’s in fleeting glimpses like these that we see Miranda in all her stinging glory. But her penchant for sarcasm and affinity for stone-cold steeliness are now buried under the burden of powerlessness in a market where even the most influential opinion makers are at the mercy of dwindling revenues and shorter attention spans. In the first part, when she confesses to Andy (Anne Hathaway) the pain of discounting her family for her work, she justifies it with aspiration (“everybody wants to be us”). But at the end of the sequel, seated next to her in the car again, Miranda offers a more evolved justification to Andy — “I love working” — with a glint in her eye.

Journalism, for Miranda, is no longer about scaling the ladder of power, but it’s come down to protecting her identity from extinction. Similarly, for Andrea, who demonstrated power of a different kind — in walking away from Miranda at the end of the first part — journalism is now about staying in the filth and fixing it. Two decades ago, she could exercise the choice of quitting a job and applying for another. But 2026 comes to her with a lay-off from an anti-establishment newspaper and the rude realization that it’s no longer a singular workplace that’s toxic. It’s the entire ecosystem, infected by issues far larger than ego hassles and wardrobe shaming at work.

Anne Hathaway in a still from The Devil Wears Prada.

When she’s roped back into Runway as Features editor, she starts off on a wrong footing with Miranda, who claims she has “not earned” her position. But when Andy goes out of her way to get Miranda that elusive exclusive in the era of rehashes, Miranda rewards her both personally and professionally by securing a bigger budget for her section and inviting her to a high-end weekend getaway. After a change in hands of ownership, Miranda and Andy become unlikely bedfellows and join forces against an army of tech bros and a compromised future. Yes, they’ve to choose between the lesser of the devils, but they get there only through a sustained push for “more thought-out pieces with a POV” instead of glossy fashion dumps.

Miranda gives Andrea the benefit of doubt instead of treating her walkout two decades ago as a sucker punch to her ego. Similarly, Andrea never gives in to the lucrative offer of writing a definitive Miranda Priestly exposé despite their differences. She recognizes Miranda is as much, if not a bigger, victim as herself of the tectonic shift in the economics and consumption of journalism. She could’ve gone the Emily way, switched fields, scaled the corporate ladder, and dated a billionaire to (almost) buy the position she thought she always deserved. Or she could’ve turned on the system that made her what she’s today and made a moolah or two out of the soul-selling book offer. But instead, she chooses not to be “Emily 2”, but Andrea, a self-made journalist with abiding integrity.

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At its very core, The Devil Wears Prada’s sauciness came from its origin. Lauren Weisberger, a former Vogue employee and assistant to editor-in-chief Anna Wintour, wrote a “definitive” expose on her ex-boss, whom Miranda was reportedly modelled on. What’s more spicy than having two women go at it — whether it’s for the same position or at different rungs of the corporate ladder? But The Devil Wears Prada 2 refuses to go down that familiar, potentially more profitable street. Because it recognizes the market for what it’s become — a bait-feeding mechanism that pits one (woman) against another as part of the corporate power struggle. The sequel wants to dig deeper and demonstrate that there’s power in collaboration. Sure, an Emily can still manifest “May the bridges I burn light my way,” but guess where she ends up? Sharing carbs (and guilt) with the Emily who chose to build those bridges in the dark instead.