“You can’t go home again.” A sentiment oft attributed to the author Thomas Wolfe. But dang if Hollywood doesn’t try. We live in a media cacophony of reboots and reinventions, sequels and prequels, all infinitely merchandisable with a sea of product placements and corporate synergies. There is seemingly no IP at this point that cannot be franchised into its own universe of spin-off narratives and monetizations.

Which brings us to The Devil Wears Prada 2. Miranda strikes back. I’m happy to report that in this (rare?) instance Prada 2 is a nostalgic cash grab with something to say. And a raison d’etre. Plus, it’s just a darn good bit of fun, kicking off the summer ’26 blockbuster season in frothy, fizzy fashion (with a neatly nestled poison pill of cultural commentary).

I’m likely the only person who is going to invoke Joker: Folie a Deux in my review here, but like that much-maligned film (I think I’m literally the only person who liked Joker 2 … ah well), Devil Wears Prada 2 presents a deftly redemptive arc, offsetting elements of the original film that haven’t aged terribly well (e.g. body-shaming, rampant careerism, classism, low-key misogyny) with a wry and dare I say winsome self-awareness. It’s a nifty bookend to the original film … and hopefully Disney/20^th Century Studios can resist the greedy urge to force a trilogy down our collective throats. Although I suspect that will be an offer the cast and crew can’t refuse.

Returning director David Frankel and screenwriters Aline Brosh McKenna and Lauren Weisberger (author of the original novels on which all of this is based) wisely lean into providing a narrative framework tantamount to cinematic comfort food. All of the story beats burned into the consciousness of viewers who *may* have watched the first installment, say, 918 times are basically there: protagonist in desperate need of job finds herself in shark infested waters to pay the rent; a MacGuffin gauntlet is thrown to test said protagonist’s mettle (unpublished Harry Potter in the first, white whale of a feature interview subject in the second); protagonist starts to squeak into the inner circle; a fabulous European fashion extravaganza yields palace intrigue; the very industry featured throughout the film finds itself in existential peril; a double (triple?) cross puts everything right again; and just when you think all are happy and settled, there is a limousine-set exchange that makes you realize corporate America is a delicious jungle, baby (always has been, always will be). Finis.

How’s that for a spoiler/non-spoiler summation?

The core four from the original film – Meryl Streep, Anne Hathaway, Stanley Tucci, and Emily Blunt – are all dynamite (duh), bringing grit and wit, joy and gravitas to material that otherwise would float forgettably into the ether in less capable hands. New adds to the cast – Justin Theroux, Lucy Liu, Kenneth Branagh, Lady Gaga (!?) – have far less to do but make the most of limited screen time, running just shy of becoming a red flag for overstuffed sequelitis (Sex and the City 2 … I’m looking at you).

There are some inevitably clunky moments. Twenty years passing between installments will do that to a franchise. You can practically hear the plot-point gears grinding against one another to justify bringing the old band back together, but once the momentum is established, the whole enterprise feels like a cozily familiar cerulean blue sweater.

But as the world keeps burning, I suppose we all need entertainment that comforts and critiques simultaneously. Some have argued that Miranda Priestly has “lost her edge” in this latest production. I beg to differ. With time and the inevitable repeat viewings, the glitz and the flash of this sequel will retreat, and the film’s incisive assessment of the precarious moment we all find ourselves in culturally will be that much more evident.

We are buffeted by an increasingly fragmented, misleading, manipulative media landscape. Journalism dies a thousand deaths every day. Art and beauty are succumbing to an army of algorithms and ’bots shaping public discourse in spiraling, reductive ways. The authority of singular visionaries helping curate taste and style has been lost in a sea of “influencers.” Devil Wears Prada 2 straps on its Louboutins and runs headlong into this miasma with a hardy “may the bridges I burn light my way.”

Unleash hell, indeed.

P.S. I was in London last month and have been remiss in giving a shout out to the theatre scene there. Sometimes, honestly, I just want to go see something and NOT feel like I have homework to do after. That said, I took in, yes, Devil Wears Prada The Musical at the Dominion Theatre, starring fabulous Vanessa Williams with a score by Sir Elton John. Indeed, it’s yet another reinvention – first a book, then a movie, now a musical – but it’s also damn delightful. Imagine the relentless pep of Legally Blonde the Musical with an arch side of the chilly Teutonic pop of American Psycho the Musical. Rodgers and Hammerstein wept. Hopefully, the show will make its way stateside for you to form your own opinion. That’s all.

P.P.S. Oh, wait. That’s NOT all. I also saw Moulin Rouge the Musical at the Piccadilly Theatre and Disney’s Hercules the Musical at the Drury Lane Theatre. It’s not lost on me now that everything I saw was an adaptation/expansion of a beloved film. I sense a theme! Moulin Rouge is by far the stronger offering, with a louchely immersive theatrical experience and a clever updating to the pop/rock pastiche score that will bring smiles of recognition (and a pang of heartache or two). Hercules is gorgeously staged, and the Supremes-esque gospel Greek chorus deserve their own (better) show. Go for the spectacle, stay for the muses, and try not to think about the hodge-podge book too much. Now THAT’s all.