Allow me to begin by acknowledging that no one gives a damn about what I think. And that no one is being forced to read my blog. No proverbial gun to anyone’s head. And that I have no problem admitting that my opinions and analyses are solely my own and no one need adopt them. I’m likely full of shit.
The reason for this throat clearing is that, after writing this, I’ve routinely gotten emails from Red Hot Chili Peppers fans that are almost as dull and stupid as the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ music. I’m somewhat scared of what may come from sharing my thoughts on a much-loved movie, but the thoughts won’t leave me. Best to excise them from the brain via the art of writing, or whatever it is I’m practicing. Silence is an option, always, but (aside from the Chili Peppers fans and haters Google sends my way) not that many people actually read this blog, so fuck it.
Also: I should confess that 1. I’ve seen The Devil Wears Prada numerous times and don’t exactly hate it, just feel it nets far more praise than it merits, and 2. I like nice clothes and lament how slovenly so many of my fellow humans dress, even if I understand the reasons why. For some—too many—it’s a matter of economics. Nice things cost money. Of course, I had a roommate who managed to look dapper as fuck by solely shopping at resale stores and mending clothes rather than cycling through new outfits every few months. And a very stylish friend has assured me that one needs only a modest core of outfits and little crafty attention to their possibilities.
Some people I have known have asserted, not incorrectly, that clothes are a con. I had a student who wanted to write his midterm essay on this very idea, his claim being that the world would be a better place if we all wore sweatpants. I get it—comfort over elegance. And okay, I hardly represent the pinnacle of fashion, but I own a blazer or two and more than a few nice shirts. I appreciate those who give enough of a fuck to present themselves somewhere between modestly and fabulous. So, as I grapple with my feelings on the movie all fashionistas bow to, know that I am not presenting a critique along the lines of those mentioned above.
Okay. Here goes.
The Devil Wears Prada offends me less than many movies of the last twenty years, yet this week—as the unnecessary sequel dominates theater screens—I’m finding myself irked at the number of podcasts and articles declaring the 2006 film a classic, a brilliant film, a testament to the magic of cinema. I mean, it’s fine, right? But is it great?
Perhaps I’m cranky after decades of seeing words like genius and classic being used too elastically. The movie, as a piece of filmmaking, is okay. Entertaining. Charming. Well-executed. Anne Hathaway, the leading lady, is winning and the real star of the movie, Maryl Streep as Miranda, delivers a performance that, while nowhere close to the weighty roles of Sophie’s Choice or Silkwood, is predictably solid. But is she the real star? No. The real star is clothing. Fashion. Capitalism. Hustle culture. Grind mentality. A perverted definition of the American dream.
The movie encapsulates the era from which it was spawned—we see 2006 clearly. Just a hair into the 21st century, 9/11 having briefly caused these United States to examine our hubris before the missiles began flying and the mechanics of the market went back to reminding us that the most important thing is that we work ourselves to death and satisfy the whims of those above us. Because maybe then we’ll get the big job and can be insufferably mean to our underlings and fuck over those most loyal to us who foolishly think they are next in the line of succession. The financial crisis (from which we learned not a fucking thing) was two years away and we were still preaching the gospel of unfettered capitalism. Money = power and clothes and making fun of anyone with a real human body.
I’m taking a minute now to credit an influence, the famous take down of another beloved film, “I Rewatched Love Actually and Am Here to Ruin It for All of You” by Lindy West. What I remember most from this glorious essay is the attention paid to a character who the film consistently regards as fat. The role is played by a human woman who looks like a human woman with a normal human body. Not even an overweight normal human body. Very much like Anne Hathaway’s normal human body in the first half of the The Devil Wears Parada before she goes down a size or two, a feat celebrated by her coworker because how dare she ever have a normal human body?
The first half of The Devil Wears Prada is notable for two things: jokes about the leading lady’s non-existent weight problem and making that character feel like shit for being a heathen ignorant of twin gods named Fashion and Power. That she becomes a congregant long enough to piss off her friends, lose her boyfriend (more on him in a bit), sleep with a random asshole, rise in her horrible boss’s estimation, and spout some girl boss feminism is shown as correct. She has come into the fold, seen the error of her earlier, dismissive ways. The famous cerulean sweater scene plays a trick on the viewer by showing us two very similar belts and having one of Miranda’s minions claim they are so very different. Hathaway’s Andy, our cinematic stand-in, laughs as her coworkers debate the merits of each belt as if they were curing cancer, only to be publicly (pun alert) dressed down by her boss, which is when our perspective is supposed to shift. The film has taken us to task for laughing at the absurdity of these very similar items being described as polar opposites. We can laugh again as the scene concludes, pretending that we too see how silly this uninitiated, frumpy girl is, so “blithely” unaware of how the powerful people in the room hold sway over what sweater she plucks from a discount bin (her real sins: she shops discount, doesn’t think much about her ensemble). Oh, Andy. Really. Grow up and get with the Versace already.
And she does get with the Runway program. She excels at the job, is admitted to the club and basks in all the baubles inclusion offers. But not before complaining to the one person at the office who reluctantly offers her a spoonful of consideration, played by Stanley Tucci. He tells her that she should quit if she isn’t happy there. He knows a million girls who would kill for the gig. So quit. Or shut up and do the job. Dress the part. Swallow the pride and skip lunch and hustle, hustle, grind!
I want to take a moment and discuss something one of my students shared with me regarding not just The Devil Wears Prada but their time working in the fashion industry. Specifically referring to the cerulean sweater scene, they argued that this duality, the knowing how ridiculous the industry is while surrendering to its vast power and basking in its giddy pleasures, perfectly encapsulates a career in fashion. Other briefly-consulted sources back this up. You love it; you hate it; you live it; you doubt every moment. I cannot speak to the veracity of this and am trusting those closer to the industry than I will ever be, but I can see the ways the gig becomes the life, the enthusiasm becomes the religion. And if such emersion into a competitive, mercenary, and gorgeous world is not only possible but necessary for one to thrive, they can hardly be faulted. I suppose. As I cast a few stones, I might admit my own zealous participation in different cults. Aren’t we all navigating systems of power that we bow to while hiding our scorn? Perhaps. I am at a loss to think of an industry free from ethical compromises, one without hierarchies or daily challenges to one’s personal values.
At least in the fashion world there are colorful extravaganzas and beauty. But I can’t stop thinking about all that spectacle as The Devil Wears Prada 2 is in theaters just as the Bezos threw themselves a party at the Met while the world’s burning and the people who slave for these assholes pee in bottles or wear adult diapers to work. If we are in the second Gilded Age then the likely dazzling glitz and haute couture of TDWP2, like the Bezos’ bash, feels tone deaf and crass. In 2006, the first film felt like a fluffy, harmless thing, a peak behind the jeweled walls revealing sights equal parts glamorous and poisonous. But funny. And our avatar, plucky wide-grinning Andy, got out before she spouted anything so disturbing as the wish for a stomach virus to further shrink her stomach (that line, from Emily Blunt’s character, is played for laughs when it should conjure horror). I’ve been told the sequel addresses some realities of 2026—publishing is on its knees, the successful career Andy dreamed of is hers, though now precarious. At some point I will see the movie; for now, I’ll reserve scrutiny and pause the before-mentioned concern that a second sampling of pretty clothes and scheming assholes will taste bitter.
But I digress.
Later in the first movie, Andy’s boyfriend, played by that dude from Entourage (whose name I forget, who I’ll call “that dude from Entourage” and won’t bother looking up because I hate that show), echoes Stanley Tucci’s sentiments. She could just quit if she hates the job so much. Sure, that dude from Entourage doesn’t give her the “You’re not trying; you’re whining” speech and is not nearly articulate or smart enough to verbalize what he is likely thinking: I don’t like seeing my girlfriend this upset over a fucking job. If you’re unhappy, quit. I know… easy to say, and he doesn’t get it, and he’s being selfish, and he’s not supporting her. There’s been a lot of talk lately about his character being the real villain of the film. I’d call him a dopey, bland, garden-variety bro. He and Andy probably shouldn’t be together and are heading in different directions. Which makes them a typical young couple. But he doesn’t want to support her killing herself for a job she is at first infuriated by and later ambivalent about? And he’s the asshole? Not the woman who calls Andy by a different name, gives her impossible tasks, needlessly weight shames her and faults her for acts of fucking nature?
That Andy has a very late-in-the-movie defection is hardly redeeming. Yeah, she tosses her phone in the fountain and quits, but she’s already swallowed enough Kool-Aid that her rejection of her boss’s toxicity does little to sap vitality from the film’s message: wealth and power and handbags are worth any number of principles. It is not only expected that one should kill themselves and fuck people over to get ahead, it’s correct. Anything else is lazy and mediocre. Exceptional people shelve their ethics and sacrifice their every moment to the gig. They don’t think about free time because there is no such thing. There is only the dress, the shoes, the handbag, the glitz, the spectacle, the title, the office, the salary, the accumulation of power measured against the other person’s accumulation of power. This other person may sit next to you in their very own cubicle (bigger than yours?) and they may even become your friend long enough for you to throw them to the wolves if it elevates your position. That’s the game.
Here I am reminded of the mafia films and crime shows that at times glorify horrible behavior. Fans of The Wire get caught up in the gangster chess game, the ways Avon and Stringer out maneuver the police who play by a set of rules not that different from the criminals’. It’s all in the game, as Omar says. The show speaks of citizens and players. The talk feels very applicable to Corporate America. The free market. Wall Street. Silicon Valley. The Government. A notable scene from Veep featured a senator asking someone, “What, is this your first day in the game?” The senator was referring to the mechanics of press conferences and backroom deals. Forget that these events center on the governmental politics of a country and have real-world stakes. It’s just a game. Silicon Valley assholes refer to anyone not at their level as NPCs, people they do not see as real, however much these people are made worse by the tech leaders’ megalomania. It’s all a game. Whoever dies with the most toys wins. Cops, gangsters, politicians, brokers, tech bros, magazine editors, executive assistants, chefs, mechanics, even (gulp) university professors. All game players.
At the worst moment of The Devil Wears Parada, Andy defends her boss against the criticism (monster, tyrant, demanding) by rightly pointing out that if Miranda were a man the world would call him smart and driven and praise his business acumen. Salient point. Sexism is definitely a thing. But so is toxic productivity. The film never really questions the culture that insists one should work as hard as not only Andy does but surely her boss has before getting where she is. And Miranda’s job is never safe; she is forever dealing with the vipers plotting against her. She makes moves to ensure her place at the top, moves that require some moral flexibility. That’s the game, and Miranda plays it best. We should idolize her, learn from her, defend her, never ask if the game she’s playing is venomous. Bigger questions about capitalism and the deleterious physical and psychological effects of climbing corporate ladders be damned. There are handbags to hawk and human beings to destroy.
