"It took 20 years for the sequel to come out, but I think that time was clearly necessary."
That was what Meryl Streep said during her first visit to Korea to promote "The Devil Wears Prada 2." Unveiled at a recent press screening, the film proved Streep's words true. By dramatically contrasting the media landscape of 2006, when smartphones did not exist, with that of 2026, when smartphones have consumed everything, the sequel proved that the 20-year wait was worthwhile—and that audiences will now have to wait for the story 20 years from now.
The way the film portrays reality by contrasting 2006, before iPhones and other smartphones, with 2026, when nothing can be done without them, is dramatic and theatrical. The 2026 media ecosystem in "The Devil Wears Prada 2" is a "battlefield of survival," completely transformed by smartphones and massive capital.
The film begins by starkly exposing the reality facing the media from its very first scene. Andy (Anne Hathaway), who walked out of her assistant job under Miranda (Meryl Streep)—the editor-in-chief of the fashion magazine Runway and a legend in the industry—to become a "true journalist," receives an investigative reporting award on the very day her entire team is notified of their dismissal via text message. Her acceptance speech turns into an indictment of the state of journalism.
Meanwhile, Runway is carpet-bombed by the media and the industry over a dishonest client, and Miranda faces the greatest crisis of her life. The film then picks up pace as Runway's chairman brings in Andy as the savior for the embattled magazine.
Miranda, who once hurled her coat and bag, now hangs them herself
Her fiercest way of protecting her work and herself is deeply moving
The film compresses and symbolically captures the changed reality through Andy's shocked expression upon returning to Runway after 20 years. Gone is the charismatic "devil" and "witch" Miranda at the peak of power, casually hurling her coat and bag at an assistant the moment she walks into the office. Now she hangs her own coat and bag, and she cannot even read her smartphone without glasses. The Miranda who once lined up luxury items from Dior and Chanel, meticulously choosing which would make it into the magazine, now frets over whether luxury brands will cut back on their sponsorships. She even accepts most of their excessive demands just to keep surviving. For audiences who remember the original, the symbolic scenes that visualize Miranda's descent from "reigning goddess" to "a working professional who must adapt to the system" are bewildering and bittersweet. The "fall of a legend"—a textbook bad boss whose unmatched competence demanded respect—leaves a scratch on the heart. Wasn't our Miranda supposed to remain forever proud, however venomous and ruthless?
An era where survival, not competition, is the goal
Miranda and Emily embody the shift in power
Is that all that has changed in 20 years? As the runtime progresses, the film pours out the harsh reality that this is no longer an era of industry competition but one where survival itself is the objective. The reversal of power dynamics naturally reshaped by industrial shifts, and the Asian employees now filling Runway—once a "sanctuary of Westerners"—vividly demonstrate how much the times have changed over two decades. In particular, the transformation of Emily, who once struggled under Miranda, reflects the industry's reality but also delivers catharsis to working professionals. The inversion of the power relationship between Miranda and Emily—a reversal that every office worker has dreamed of at least once. Just how far will Emily's dream go?
A promotion party turned funeral, the end of Runway's era
Trust and fierce solidarity among professionals that transcend cold calculation
The power to clear impossible missions—the answer is, ultimately, "people"
Just as Emily is writing her reversal-of-power drama, Miranda is on the verge of a promotion that would take her to the highest seat. The chairman had been pressuring Miranda by dangling that promotion. But the chairman's 76th birthday party, at which Miranda's promotion was to be announced, turns into a funeral. Miranda's promotion, of course, goes up in smoke. And the son set to inherit the company prefers comfortable hiking clothes and has no interest in fashion or magazines.
The chairman's death is perhaps a cinematic device that metaphorically signals the disappearance of Miranda—and the era of fashion magazines—into history. For the truth that nothing is eternal, even after long years at the top, never changes.
Will Miranda and "Runway," the symbol of fashion journalism, simply fade away like this? Miranda and Andy would never allow that. The fame may not be what it once was. But Miranda and Andy, who pulled off the impossible in the original, once again deliver unbelievable teamwork 20 years later to accomplish what seems unachievable. Even on a battlefield of cold calculation, deceit and counter-deceit, trust in people, recognition of each other's abilities, and love and passion for the work itself clear the impossible mission. It is not a mission for anyone else. It was possible precisely because it was a mission to save themselves and the work they love from disappearing.
The emotional impact of "The Devil Wears Prada 2," returning after 20 years, ultimately comes down to people. Miranda hurls venom at Andy, saying, "I had no choice but to take you because the chairman pushed you on me," but the truth is different. The scene revealing that Miranda, who believed Andy was the only one fit to rebuild a broken "Runway," had quietly recommended her, works as the film's "heart-tugging trigger." It is a trust in a colleague that transcends self-interest, a solidarity possible only in a world of professionals who recognize each other's abilities.
And ultimately, at the point where recognition of Andy—a colleague and subordinate—meets a fierce attachment to the work, "The Devil Wears Prada 2" delivers weighty and moving comfort that goes beyond a mere sequel. "The worst crisis facing you is, paradoxically, becoming your firmest opportunity for survival."
What she wanted to protect was not power, but the 'work' itself
Every way of holding on proves the elegance of a new era
"I don't care what the world throws at me. I just love this work too much—what can I do?"
And Miranda's confession, which crowns the finale, comes across as a tribute to every working professional in the world. What she was trying to protect, in the end, was not power but the "work" itself. The era of glamorous journalism is over, and there is no elegant way to survive. But the film proves that every way of enduring on a fierce battlefield through sheer skill, of protecting one's work and oneself, is the elegance of a new era.
