Remember me
In the final volume of Proust’s great novel, In Search of Lost Time, the narrator attends a devastating soirée at which he scarcely recognises anyone. The partygoers, whom he first met when he entered society 20 years before, have been degraded by time. That’s also how long it has taken for this The Devil Wears Prada sequel to arrive.
It’s not because there was no demand. The teaser trailer for this continuation was viewed 181.5 million times in its first 24 hours, the full trailer 222 million times. But, as the director David Frankel endearingly explained to the audience at the London premiere “for almost two decades we just didn’t have a good enough idea” for a second movie. That idea, when it came, was proposed by the original’s scriptwriter, Aline Brosh McKenna. It is simply that the fashion media world has changed and shrunk a lot since 2006, meaning its tussling heroines – monstrous editor Miranda Priestly (Meryl Streep) and earnest journalist Andy (Anne Hathaway) – would face new challenges. That’s it.
Otherwise, to an almost superhuman extent, product continuity has been maintained over a stretch of time that martyred Proust’s aristocrats. It boasts the same director, the same scriptwriter, the same rhythm and story arc, and all the same key players, still looking remarkably good. Meryl Streep, 56 then, 76 now, easily carries off her beast of a boss, picking up the familiar mannerisms and intonations, rather like Anthony Hopkins turning it on again as Hannibal Lecter. Sacred monsters must be treasured.
Anne Hathaway and Emily Blunt (both 23 then, 43 now) are no less appealing – Blunt a good deal more poised in fact. Stanley Tucci, now 65, as Runway magazine’s styptic but good-hearted art director, Nigel, was never young anyway.
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The Devil Wears Prada was always a stylish swizz. Honest Andy’s trajectory through the ruthless business of high fashion, dolling up and beating them at their own game, before walking away to be true to herself, allowed the viewer to hoggishly indulge in all the glamour and preposterousness of that world while also retaining full moral recuperation at the end. It performed a similar sleight of hand in notionally addressing the challenges of being a working woman, while actually delivering high-end wish fulfilment.
The Devil Wears Prada 2 does it again. Andy is accepting an award for her distinguished journalism when she hears her newspaper is being closed, like so many. Luckily, Runway’s owner decides it needs her because, disgraced on social media for its support of sweatshop fashion, the magazine must quickly acquire gravitas.
She arrives to be the new features editor. “Well,” says Nigel, “look what TJ Maxx dragged in [sic].” “Sorry,” says Miranda disdainfully. “Who is this? Do you know her? Do I know her?” But soon Andy proves herself invaluable, landing “the Holy Grail, interview wise”, with the fabulously rich Sasha Barnes (Lucy Liu), recently divorced from the Elon Musk-level tech mogul Benji Barnes (Justin Theroux). Once again, Nigel kits out Andy in trophy-wear from his magic closet, and in no time she’s weekending in the Hamptons and flying out to Milan for Runway’s fabulous fashion event, complete with a belter from Lady Gaga.
But even Runway is in trouble. The magazine is up for sale, coveted by Andy’s old rival, the haughty Emily (Blunt), now a director at Dior and dating Benji. Will Miranda be outmanoeuvred at last? Can Andy help her or only hinder?
A few things have changed. Phones ping more. The secondary casting is more diverse. Dieting is emphasised less. There’s even some small attempt to recognise – whisper it – ageing. Miranda now has a cuddly hubby (chunky Kenneth Branagh) who promises he’ll be there for her if she ever does want to give up work. Working so very hard for the last 20 years, Andy has never married and has had her eggs frozen, but she connects with a genial Australian property developer (Patrick Brammall) and they sweetly agree to be less than perfect together.
The Devil Wears Prada 2 skilfully delivers once more the guilty pleasures of a chick-flick – bitchiness and couture, handbags and prancing – through an intelligent, beautiful and sympathetic ingénue as alter ego for the audience. For extra points, at the last, Miranda, almost humanised by this stage, admits her dedication to her career has its costs: “But, boy, I love working!” No worries, though. There will be frocks.
“The Devil Wears Prada 2” is in cinemas on 1 May
[Further reading: The perils of adapting Kazuo Ishiguro]
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This article appears in the 29 Apr 2026 issue of the New Statesman, The cover-up?