‘The Devil Wears Prada 2’ Review: Meryl Streep, Anne Hathaway Are Back

If you go into The Devil Wears Prada 2 looking for fierce fashion porn, bitchy put-downs and a fresh dose of Meryl Streep’s iconic performance as imperious Anna Wintour clone Miranda Priestly, you are unlikely to be disappointed. Arriving 20 years after the original, David Frankel’s sequel hits familiar beats that fans will eat up and deftly reconfigures the core trio of women into new adversarial positions, even if it ultimately lapses into cozy sentimentality. The movie is best when it sticks to fluffy, fun nostalgia rather than shooting for substance.

Detractors immune to the cult-like adoration for the high-sheen original had issues with its shallowness, toothless fashion industry satire and anemic storyline. It’s hard to skewer aspirational luxury when you’re drooling over it. The late-series Sex and the City vibe (the canonical HBO show was a stepping-stone for Frankel when he was cutting his teeth as a director) that made the material seem already dated two decades back is even more nagging here, not that the huge fanbase who just want the glamour and romance are going to care.

Returning screenwriter Aline Brosh McKenna aims for relevancy this time by padding the story with quasi-topical points. The sharpest of them is a close-to-the-bone commentary on the death of journalism, in both news media and ad-depleted fash mags. (Disney, among other studios, is helping to dig that grave by adopting the now almost standard strategy of keeping critics gagged until pants-wetting influencers have shaped the narrative on social media.)

Then there’s the introduction of tech billionaire Benji Barnes (Justin Theroux), who’s basically Jeff Bezos with hair. Having extricated himself from his first marriage to the now stonking rich Sasha (Lucy Liu), he attempts to buy the film’s Vogue stand-in, Runway, as a toy for his calculating new girlfriend, whose identity we won’t disclose. But in true American oligarchy spirit, he sees no value in media in a world coasting toward extinction and instead is looking for a new planet to ravage. This thread is barely a comedy sketch.

Even thinner is a potentially timely dig at the luxury real estate boom, a legitimate issue in New York City in the grip of a housing crisis. Former assistant to Miranda, Andy Sachs (Anne Hathaway), lobs some sanctimonious indignation at her half-baked new love interest, Australian architect Peter (Patrick Brammall), a suave Pierce Brosnan type who designed a new high-end apartment block. But through some kind of illogical plot contortion, she is soon living there, at which point you might ask, “Wait, girl, what was that objection about ripping out heritage buildings and replacing them with rich-people pads again?” Maybe she was persuaded because her old friend Lily (Tracie Thoms) declared it time for her to get a grownup apartment?

Remind me, are we critiquing conspicuous displays of wealth or endorsing them? You could get whiplash trying to figure out where this movie stands on ostentatious luxury.

Tellingly, a twinkly shot of the Manhattan skyline, in real life now blighted by pencil-shaped high-rises, appears to have been digitally scrubbed to preserve the nostalgic glow. What’s most noticeable is the absence of 262 Fifth Avenue, the Russian-owned and -designed skyscraper that has rankled many New Yorkers by blocking the South view of the Empire State Building. The movie gestures toward the real world but is unequivocally selling the fantasy. Which, again, will be just what the target audience ordered.

In the intervening years since we last saw her, Andy has been toiling as a Serious Journalist at a Hard-Hitting News Outlet called The Vanguard. But just as she’s announced as the winner of a journalism award at a fancy dinner, her phone and those of all her colleagues at the table light up with texts informing them that the publication is folding and their employment terminated.

Andy’s acceptance speech rips into the now sadly familiar story of another media company taking a $500 million write-down while the take-home of its CEO the previous year was $11 million. Her impassioned outpouring — the subtext of which is that journalism is more important than corporate greed — goes viral.

Meanwhile across town, Streep’s Miranda makes a regal entrance in a spectacular red gown (oddly like the one from Mother Mary) at a swanky event where group chairman Irv Ravitz (Tibor Feldman, giving good S.I. Newhouse) is expected to announce her move from the now-digital Runway to global content editor for the parent media company. But just as she hits the red carpet, news breaks that the magazine is under fire for endorsing a fast-fashion brand built on sweatshop labor. 

Having seen Andy’s speech online, Irv calls to offer her the position of Runway’s new features editor, with a damage-control mandate. When she arrives at the office the next day, Miranda has not been informed of the new hire and nor does she remember Andy. The EIC gives her outfit a disapproving once-over before parking her in the crappiest office available, where Andy pens what The New York Times calls “a bracing mea culpa” about the sweatshop faux pas. Band-aid applied, though unacknowledged by the ice queen.

There are some amusing updates on what Miranda can get away with. Her coat and handbag are no longer hurled on assistants’ desks since an HR complaint. And her hyper-competent first assistant Amari (Simone Ashley) discreetly shuts her down when she risks saying anything culturally insensitive. Not that such concerns take the sting out of her haughty disdain, which Streep reliably delivers with supreme poise and acid tongue.

The same could be said for Runway’s longtime art director Nigel Kipling (Stanley Tucci), though a tart sweetness — even a whisper of camaraderie — cushions his barbs. He’s Miranda’s confidant but not her imitator. Tucci is the movie’s other MVP and gets many of McKenna’s best lines. Brilliant at his job, Nigel once again is the story’s “magical gay,” whisking the wardrobe-deficient Andy into the photoshoot fashion closet and kitting her out with thousands of bucks’ worth of swoon-worthy designer apparel.

The other part of restoring Runway’s credibility early on is appeasing the advertisers, which means sucking up to Dior, in particular. Miranda’s other former assistant, Emily Charlton (Emily Blunt, in delicious form), is now an executive at the legendary fashion house’s New York operations. With gloating acerbity, she demands several pages of free ads and a feature on the label’s new flagship store.

That task also falls to Andy, but Miranda continues to dismiss her worth at the magazine. Andy attempts to change her mind by landing an interview with the press-shy Sasha Barnes, who has been impressed by “the new gravitas” in Runway’s articles. 

The story’s other major development is the ascension to the chairmanship of Irv’s fashion-philistine, athleisure-outfitted son Jay (B.J. Novack). “He wears Drakkar Noir!” gasps Miranda’s second assistant Charlie (Caleb Hearon) in horror when the news hits. Jay brings in a team of Ivy League MBA consultants to oversee company restructuring, slashing expense accounts and travel budgets.

That thread hands Streep comedy gold as Miranda shudders to learn there’s a staff cafeteria in the building where she’s expected to eat, and car services are out, meaning Ubers only. One priceless bit is a faint whimper and yearning flutter of her gloved hand toward the business class pods as Amari marches her through to coach on a flight to Milan. Streep’s light touch, even with physical comedy like Miranda struggling with the overheads, is impeccable.

Like Paris in the first movie, the Italian fashion capital serves as a glittering backdrop for lots of cool couture and historic landmarks, like the beautiful Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, home of the original Prada store. (Molly Rogers steps in for her mentor Patricia Field as costume designer. Or shopper.) Runway is staging a major Milan fashion show for which Miranda reluctantly calls in a favor to enlist a superstar guest. That big name is no longer a secret, but we’ll omit it in case someone hasn’t heard.

That one-scene and one-song star appearance is the flashiest example of the movie’s many celeb cameos, as liberally sprinkled as the routine needle drops. Every time there’s an event, faces from the fashion, media and entertainment worlds mingle with extras, among them Tina Brown, Marc Jacobs, Naomi Campbell, Law Roach, Kara Swisher, Jon Batiste and Brunello Cuccinelli. I gave up trying to scribble the names down fast enough. The best of these appearances is a very funny scene in which Emily lunches with Donatella Versace.

There’s a bunch of behind-the-scenes intrigue involving Andy, Emily and Miranda in Milan as the future of Runway and its ownership hangs in the balance and what appear to be betrayals turn into rescue attempts. McKenna’s script has no big surprises up its sleeve — another moment of reflection in the backseat of a car for Miranda, a humbling for Emily, an offer of friendship and I guess some kind of journey for Andy, who’s now more confident though still too nice to match the value of Miranda or Emily or Nigel. That said, Hathaway is effortlessly charming in the role.

The most affecting note is the melancholy conclusion that any save employed to buoy magazines like Runway will be temporary at best.

All four leads step back into their characters’ shoes with ease and swan around in fabulous looks. (I confess I stalked Nigel’s chocolate velvet shawl-collar tux jacket online, waiting for a markdown. Grrr.) But would Miranda really wear that bonkers Dries Van Noten tassel jacket (which was giving me Carol Burnett as Scarlett O’Hara)? I’m not convinced. In the end, the movie is less a workplace comedy than a clothes horse, elevated by a classy cast.

Of the newcomers, Theroux is playing a caricature and Kenneth Branagh’s role as Miranda’s supportive violinist husband is only slightly less thankless than Brammall’s. Bridgerton alumna Ashley is a zesty addition, Amari’s aloof efficiency making her a Miranda-in-training. Despite talk in an editorial meeting of body-positivity and plus-size models on the Milan catwalk, that flag seems to be flown solely by Hearon’s sweet and amenable Charlie. 

A promo clip stirred backlash from some East Asians offended by the perceived stereotype of Andy’s assistant Jin Chao — academic over-achiever, tech-savvy, socially awkward, nerdy fashion sense. Whether that will hurt the film in some markets is hard to say. In any case, it’s no fault of appealing Broadway recruit Helen J. Shen in the role. In truth, it’s difficult to imagine anyone being terribly upset by anything in The Devil Wears Prada 2. It’s pretty and polished and as featherweight as a fawning magazine puff piece; it will doubtless make a fortune.