“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/20th 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herself in shark infested waters to pay the rent; a MacGuffin gauntlet is thrown to test said protagonist’s mettle (unpublished Harry Potter in the first, white whale of a feature interview subject in the second); protagonist starts to squeak into the inner circle; a fabulous European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.
I had a pretty gluttonous Thanksgiving. No, I don’t mean green bean casserole and pecan pie (I loathe pumpkin) and cranberry sauce and corn bread stuffing. I certainly don’t mean turkey. As Tom Hanks, thoughtfully portraying children’s TV icon Fred Rogers, observes in the surreally superlative A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood, “I just can’t imagine eating anything that has a mother.“ Me neither.
It really is kind of a shame (and the luck of the draw) that I devoted 12 (!) paragraphs to 
A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood is exceptional, in great part because the cast – the aforementioned Hanks, Matthew Rhys as a hardened journalist determined to find the toxic truth underlying Mr. Rogers’ sunny sanctimony, and Chris Cooper as Rhys’ neglectful/neglected papa – sidestep any mawkishness inherent in the material with their honest, unadorned portrayals. More to the point, director Marielle Heller takes her cue from the source material – an Esquire cover story – turning in a film that is more clear-eyed essay than slice-of-life biopic. Everything in the movie feels as slightly left of center as any episode of Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood ever did, acknowledging the program’s twee sensibilities and refracting the show’s heightened sense of “make believe” wonder as a metaphorical context for the tiny cruelties family and friend exact on a daily, perhaps hourly basis. It’s a good movie, not quite a great one, but the comforting cinematic equivalent of a scruffy, slightly embarrassing cardigan and pair of house shoes.
Jojo Rabbit takes the Merrie Melodies lunacy of actor/director Taika Waititi’s 
Knives Out is just ok. There are far better versions of this movie and far worse, but I think I’d rather spend an afternoon with Sleuth or Murder by Death, hell, even Deathtrap before giving Knives Out another go. As Daniel Craig, playing a crispy-fried Foghorn Leghorn private detective with none of the zingy Mason-Dixon daffiness he exuded in 
Blinded by the Light (on DVD and streaming) is directed with a sure hand by Gurinder Chadha, employing pretty much the exact same template she rode to international success with Bend It Like Beckham (which in and of itself follows the pattern of so many working class British dramedies like Billy Elliot or The Full Monty, depicting resourceful souls rising above class warfare). If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Based on a true story, the film focuses on a young Pakistani man (an appealing turn by Viveik Kalra) who strives to overcome the racist nationalism (there’s that theme again!) and economic disparity of 1980s Thatcherite England and to break loose from a well-intentioned but overbearing father who can’t understand his boy’s dreams of becoming a writer. (“Where’s the money in that?!” asks this guy writing a movie blog for free.) Instead of soccer, our protagonist finds his muse in the lyricism of “The Boss” Bruce Springsteen, encouraged by a wry but loving literature teacher (a marvelous Hayley Atwell) and some beautifully drawn teenage pals (Aaron Phagura and Nell Williams). The film is as predictable as all great fables can be but is delicately executed, well-acted, and simultaneously sobering and inspiring. And, yes, this bonbon of a film seems ready-made to be musicalized.
Speaking of which … Kinky Boots, the Tony-winning musical adaptation by Cyndi Lauper and Harvey Fierstein of the 2005 Brit comedy film of the same name (which starred a then-unknown Joel Edgerton and Chiwetel Ejiofor), was just broadcast on PBS’ Great Performances. To say the show was perfection – as perfectly kicky as the thigh-high red boots drag queen Lola (and later the entire cast) dons during the show – would be the textbook definition of understatement. This cast was the Olivier Award-winning West End crew, led by Matt Henry (my mother accurately observed … move over Shirley Bassey and Lena Horne) as the transformative Lola who storms into the life of bedraggled shoe-factory scion Charlie (a winning Killian Donnelly) and turns a small town on its collective head … for the better. The factory is days away from closing, and, by reinventing itself to serve the “niche market” of drag queen footwear, changes its fortunes … and the lives (and attitudes) of all who work there. This is no To Wong Foo magical drag queen fairy tale, however. Lola (also known as Simon) is a fully realized, poignant, exhilarating human being, complex, complicated, flawed, perfect. In Henry’s manicured hands, Lola is the heart of the show, a beautiful yin to Charlie’s shaggy yang. The stage relationship between Donnelly and Henry is deeply affecting, propelled by Lauper’s pulsing, percolating, nicely integrated score. Amy Lennox as Charlie’s co-worker, confidante, and eventual love interest Lauren is dynamite, a musical comedy crackerjack, balancing pathos and hilarity brilliantly, sometimes in a single phrase. Kinky Boots celebrates accepting who we are (and the gifts which embracing that truth can bring) with warmth, kindness, and about the best pacing I’ve seen onstage.
Lady & the Tramp (currently streaming on Disney+) is on the small screen where I reckon all of these live action remakes of Disney’s animated classics actually belong. Seriously, 20 years ago, these things would have all been very special presentations on Sunday nights on The Wonderful World of Disney in order to sell theme park tickets before landing on well-worn VHS tapes in the back seats of mini-vans everywhere. That said, this latest re-do ain’t half bad. Lady (voiced with moxie by Tessa Thompson) has an agency she never had in the animated film, and Tramp (a winsome Justin Theroux) just seems less, well, skeezy. There is an overarching effort toward inclusiveness with color-blind casting for the human roles of Jim Dear and Darling that, on one hand, is really refreshing, but on the other creates an inadvertently weirdly white-washed message about what interracial couples would have actually endured in turn-of-the-20th-century Missouri. And the problematic “Siamese Cat Song,” ear-wormy as it may have once been, is officially retired. In its place, there is a new and perfectly acceptable ditty to accompany Aunt Sarah’s prized felines’ narrative-essential shenanigans. “He’s a Tramp” is still on the playlist, but this time around is performed with sassy aplomb by Janelle Monae, in the role originated by Peggy Lee. The film is entertaining and pleasant with a timeless message about, yes, accepting our differences … not to mention the importance of responsible pet ownership.
The Mandalorian (currently streaming on Disney+) is about the best Star Wars spin-off to come from LucasFilm in the past 20-some years (if ever), in great part because it doesn’t seem very Star Wars-y. Or at least what “Star Wars-y” has come to mean since the original trilogy debuted: needlessly complicated back story; self-serious and ponderous mythologizing; overlong playing time; character development that seems driven as much by merchandisability as narrative need. The Mandalorian by comparison is a breezy pleasure, a throwback to single-protagonist vintage TV Westerns like The Virginian or The Rifleman (without any intentional swagger/machismo or inadvertent misogyny/racism), wherein our reluctant protagonist becomes the lens through which a different 37-minute parable is told each week. Oh, and there’s a really adorable Baby Yoda, who may be the cutest, funniest creature dreamed up since the Ewoks (yes, I still like Ewoks). Producer/writer Jon Favreau joyfully wears his retro influences on his sleeve (as evidenced by the minimalistic percussive soundtrack and the closing credits sequence, both of which seem channeled straight from 1968). Leading man Pedro Pascal (face forever obscured under his signature bounty hunter helmet – “this is the waaaay“) conveys so much heart, great comedic timing, and an intriguing amount of agnosticism, without benefit of one. single. facial. expression. Four episodes in, and I can’t wait to see where this one is going.
Watchmen (HBO) is so damn good. We had one of those “watch HBO for free!” weekends on Xfinity and, in a less than 24-hour period, we binged the first seven episodes, including tonight’s exemplary “An Almost Religious Awe” (every episode has a great title). I’m going to have to show up on the doorstep of some generous HBO-subscribing friend the next two Sundays to see how this thing wraps up! Any takers? The original DC comic book mini-series (1986-87) deconstructed the very notion of what a superhero was, offering a heady mix of cynicism and optimism, critical of Reagan-era excess and territorialism while satirically reinventing atomic age tropes of flying humans and hooded marvels, all to dissect the morals and ethics of those who set themselves up as our saviors. “Who watches the Watchmen?” Subsequent efforts to adapt the landmark series onscreen (no thank you, Zack Snyder) or revisit in print (just stop, Geoff Johns) have fallen flat, missing the existential trauma at the heart of the work. If you’d told my 14-year-old self that his 46-year-old future would include a triumphant, accessible yet layered, televised continuation of the storyline for a mainstream audience, I never would have believed you. In fact, it is this very question of identity and self and the ephemeral nature of time folding upon itself through memory that gives Watchmen its slippery power. The HBO series replaces the Cold War paranoia of the original comics with an incisive take on the race-baiting xenophobia currently paralyzing our country, in a way that is completely true to the original work while acknowledging how far we have (and haven’t) come as a society. Regina King and Jean Smart are (together) an acting powder keg, wrestling with thorny questions of race and gender, empowered and stonewalled and uninhibited and numb with white-hot rage. The supporting players are to a one excellent – Don Johnson (again!), Tim Blake Nelson, Jeremy Irons, Louis Gossett Jr., Hong Chau, Frances Fisher, Tom Mison, Sara Vickers – finding Shakespeare in the mundane and delivering a show that isn’t afraid to explore big ideas amongst daily tragedies. The score by Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross is a character unto itself – disco for a dark age, as if Phillip Glass found his groove. I have no idea where this show is going, and I can’t wait to get there … and I really don’t want it to end.
