Just when you thought Miranda Priestly had retired to a glacial mountaintop to judge the world in couture silence, she’s back. Meryl Streep—yes, the original dragon in Chanel—has officially signed on for The Devil Wears Prada 2. The high priestess of pursed lips and scathing monologues will return to her throne, which is reportedly made of unpaid internships and the bones of failed fashion editors.
This time, we’re twenty years later and the stakes are no longer just about belts that are so different. No, now Miranda’s media empire is crumbling under the weight of TikTok thirst traps and Substack manifestos. She’s up against a dying print industry, an aging workforce, and Emily Charlton—her once-traumatized assistant turned luxury conglomerate boss, played again by Emily Blunt with the cold precision of a British guillotine.
It’s the corporate Hunger Games: Couture Edition.
Andy Sachs (Anne Hathaway) is back too, presumably after a two-decade sabbatical from having a personality. Will she be a digital ethics journalist? A LinkedIn thought leader? A barista with a memoir deal? Unknown. But she’ll be there, probably explaining how Miranda’s cruelty taught her “boundaries” in therapy. Cue Nigel (Stanley Tucci), who deserves a standalone film and reparations.
Meryl, for her part, reportedly agreed to return only after the writers promised the plot would acknowledge the hollow husk that is modern publishing. So instead of a new assistant fetching coffee, expect Miranda to launch verbal airstrikes on influencers hawking flat-tummy tea in sample-size Givenchy.
Also—Adrian Grenier is not returning as Nate, the boyfriend so bland he made boiled chicken seem confrontational. Good. He can stay in 2006 where his moral superiority and his grilled cheese belong.
So what are we actually getting? A sequel that doubles as a eulogy for print media, a roast of digital fashion culture, and possibly a revenge fantasy for every Gen X editor forced into brand consulting. Think Succession meets Vogue, but with better lighting and less patricide.
Here’s the real question: will Miranda evolve into a morally gray icon for the anti-hero streaming age, or will she simply burn it all down in six-inch Louboutins and call it a Tuesday?
Either way, the devil is back—and she’s not wearing Prada for your approval. She’s wearing it to remind you that relevance may fade, but power? Power is eternal.
That’s all.