The Devil Wears Prada was a dark comedy about workplace abuse. Audiences loved Miranda Priestly (Meryl Streep), a narcissist who tortured the employees of Runway magazine. Her subs (Emily Blunt and Stanley Tucci) called her battered assistant Andy (Anne Hathaway) ungrateful for the opportunities the position, allegedly, offered her. Many fans agreed. They turned on Andy’s callow friends instead of the monster in charge.

The Devil Wears Prada 2 shows that Andy was right to leave Runway.  Miranda has failed to adapt to the modern marketplace. Blunt and Tucci’s characters have become bitter shells. When Andy is hired as features editor she regresses to the trembling victim she was in 2006. Frankly, it’s depressing.

Writers Aline Brosh McKenna and Lauren Weisberger pit legacy media against toxic tech bros. Their screenplay laments the state of the world and the public disinterest in skilled craftspeople. They come close to saying something profound. Then lose their nerve. When a nihilistic billionaire tells Miranda that art doesn’t matter, I expected an epic retort in the vein of the first films’ Cerulean monologue. Instead, she turns away in despair. Miranda’s been defanged. Clinging to the hope that her job can survive the whims of men richer and crueler than her. Now that’s 2026.

Hathaway and Blunt’s characters get more agency. Their antics are just gaining steam when the film decides to wrap things up. The third act sinks into sentimental goo. The obligatory fashion show climax has the same digital camera grayness as the rest of the movie.

It’s great to see this cast again. They make the dialogue sound smarter than it is. The sequel earns points for not rehashing the story of the first film. Though, oddly, it lifts plot points from 2010’s Burlesque. I can’t recommend Prada 2. I can’t pan it either. It just exists. That’s all.

You can find more of my reviews on The Avocado, Letterboxd and Serializd. My podcast, Rainbow Colored Glasses, can be found here.