Miranda Priestly is the beating heart of The Devil Wears Prada 2. She is stripped of the old-world gloss, yet nothing has dulled her edge. Her sass is unapologetic. Her fashion choices, from the red Balenciaga gown in her entry scene to the metallic dress she dons in Milan, remain breathtaking. Her silver-white, short bob and the low, cutting, no-nonsense voice haven’t changed. Yet, something has.
There is no sequel to the cerulean monologue—though there is a throwback to the jumper in the final scene.
But what is Miranda without her mic-drop moments? It’s espresso without caffeine. There is still style, but where’s the kick? Also gone is the theatre of intimidation.
Nobody is girding their loins. There are no panic-walking heels to be found. The chaos that once preceded Miranda’s arrival has evaporated. The new assistants are prepared, efficient, and calm. It’s unsettling to watch. Amari, played by Simone Ashley, is the ‘new Emily’. Except she’s not trembling, not scrambling, and definitely not terrified. In fact, she dares to correct Miranda in meetings and ask her to be more “politically correct”.
Then comes the moment of true cinematic blasphemy. Miranda hangs her own coat. I could still let this pass—perhaps David Frankel needed some shock value. But the filmmaker went a little too far when he made Miranda fly economy with cramped leg room. She was not even served champagne. Frankel, we need to talk.
Also read: The Devil Wears Prada 2 isn’t about fashion this time. It tackles the dark ages of publishing
Softening ‘the devil’
Just when you think it can’t get any more chaotic, comes Jay Ravitz, played by BJ Novak. The son of Irv Ravitz, owner of Runway‘s parent company, Jay taps Miranda on the shoulder. Not once. Not twice. Multiple times. Then, he calls her into a meeting in a—phew—cafeteria. A cafeteria packed with his trademark ‘guys’, trays, and noise. That entire sequence felt like someone casually texting the Queen, “u up?”
The sequel attempts to humanise ‘the devil’, and surprisingly, it works. Stuart, played by Kenneth Branagh, is Miranda’s love interest. With him comes a softer lens. Their dynamic peels back just enough of Miranda’s armour to show what is underneath. But, frustratingly, the film rushes through it. The hugs are warm but rushed, the silences too short. It’s as if the film is afraid to sit with Miranda’s vulnerability for too long—the emotions might dilute her brand.
But where her emotions do land is with Nigel. Stanley Tucci’s character remains the quiet backbone of Miranda’s world, and their emotional exchange is the sequel’s most earned moment. After decades of loyalty, of standing in the shadows without complaining or cribbing, Miranda finally sees him. The acknowledgement is soft, long overdue, and hits harder than any monologue could. And that kiss on the cheek made me shed a tear.
It’s a reminder that beneath the couture and cruelty, Miranda Priestly has always been capable of connection.
So yes, Miranda has changed. She hangs her own coat. She entertains feedback. She even lets her guard down—occasionally. But make no mistake: the edge is intact. The silence still cuts. The ‘annoyed’ stare still freezes. And the moment you think she has softened, she’ll drop one ‘that’s all’ to put you in place. And that’s the Miranda I came for.
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(Edited by Prasanna Bachchhav)