'The Devil Wears Prada 2' Review: Curtains for the Runway? Streep in the media nightmare

“The Devil Wears Prada 2” begins as a knockoff of itself, with sight gags reminiscent of the evil pranks of the 2006 hit: nearly identical teal belts, a gala salute to the uninnovative “Spring Florals,” and a red carpet that's actually cerulean. Those belts, if you remember, were the trigger for Oscar-nominated Meryl Streep's speech about how her imperious fashion magazine editor-in-chief, Miranda Priestly, creates trends that trickle down to the rest of us, the riff-raff.

That first film (I'll go ahead and call it a classic) followed a scruffy college graduate, Andy (Anne Hathaway), seeking a low-level position at Runway magazine (Vogue in all but name) as a bridge to a serious journalism career. Alas, said bridge is guarded by three trolls: fellow assistant Emily (Emily Blunt), trendsetter Nigel (Stanley Tucci), and the devil himself, Streep's red-haired Miranda, whose holy last name is a tongue-in-cheek joke. Miranda is a version of former Vogue editor-in-chief Anna Wintour, who used to be irritated by her caricature but eventually recovered. After all, Meryl Freaking Streep plays her.

The setting was glamorous, the struggle identifiable. Andy's transition from practical boots to stilettos served as a metaphor for the effort (even discomfort) it takes to pursue your dreams, no matter how they evolve. “The Devil Wears Prada” is celebrated for her makeover, and even Andy's clueless boyfriend, played by Adrian Grenier, accuses her of caring about her runway work solely because of the shoes. No, it was never about the shoes. It was about respecting the workaholic I saw in the mirror.

The sequel, from director David Frankel and screenwriter Aline Brosh McKenna, doesn't find its own footing until it recognizes that a Cinderella story about making it in journalism no longer fits. Gone are the days when Miranda and Nigel could casually tell their wealthy editor Irv (Tibor Feldman) that they're throwing away a $300,000 photo shoot because it didn't meet their lofty standards. Likewise, Andy's story begins when a tycoon closes her current job at a newspaper called the New York Vanguard, firing her and her colleagues over a $500 million tax write-off. (Cue workers at at least one major Hollywood studio nodding in recognition.)

Hathaway's Andy, smart and likable as always, returns to Runway on a shoestring budget as features editor in charge of investigative stories that online metrics reveal no one reads—that is, until he breaks off an engagement with a celebrity. Meanwhile, the Internet has reduced Miranda to a meme. Her most recent viral scandal has cheered her up in that GIF of Homer Simpson in a hedge.

McKenna writes Miranda a self-aware scene in which she acknowledges that her harsh reputation increases her influence. However, I wonder what Wintour will do with this diminished avatar pursuing the same promotion she herself just claimed at Condé Nast as global head of content. After elevating custom sewing to an art form, the very word “content” sounds like a downgrade. Content is to prestige journalism what Shein is to Chanel.

Twenty years later, all the money and power in publishing has been diverted to the very, very rich. It seems that in the script of “The Devil Wears Prada 2” there are as many billionaires as there are magazine assistants. The powerful Miranda must kowtow to the luxury brands and their ambassadors whose sponsorship keeps Runway strutting its stuff, including the once-harassed and humiliated Emily, now a Dior executive. The tension is thicker than that of mink. The film franchise chooses to ignore original author Lauren Weisberger's 2013 follow-up novel, “Revenge Wears Prada,” though I'd love to see a third installment that follows suit and gives Blunt's hilariously cold Emily center stage, as she does in her third book, “When Life Gives You Lululemons.”

The narrative is shaky, given the film's competing needs to be Miranda-frank about the modern magazine business while also pairing beautifully with a glass of rosé. Instead of Paris, we're now taken on cameo-filled binges in the Hamptons and Milan, including a dinner beneath Da Vinci's “The Last Supper” mural. (Not only is the painting's subject matter appropriate, Da Vinci himself took on his wealthy patrons.) Much of the first half feels like we're chilling with the gang, waiting for a plot to begin. There are many threads of ideas that unravel and go nowhere. Are we supposed to read something into the fact that Miranda has succumbed to organizing a spring flower event, a topic she hates, or are we just supposed to laugh at the banner and move on? Also, none of the attendees are wearing anything. with flowers. Is the old lady or the costume design slipping?

Finally, things start with a funeral; I won't say who, just that the death provides an appropriate turn for an industry that is already being laid off. Like Andy, I started writing for newspapers a few years after Craigslist decimated the classifieds site. My personal version of “The Devil Wears Prada” would be closer to a grindhouse movie. At least the Runway employees look killer at their own wake.

The dumb MBAs force Miranda to fly coach. Of course you laugh: his character hasn't made it past the first-class curtain since everyone on board was served a hot meal and plenty of legroom. But there is no schadenfreude in watching her settle into a middle seat, nor rejoicing at her comeuppance. If Miranda Priestly can be sent to steerage, we're all screwed.

The film is both more depressing than the original and more saccharine, with a repellent amount of affection between characters who should know better. Tucci's endearingly steadfast Nigel is finally applauded for his years of service on Runway, and I was dismayed to find myself rolling my eyes at how cheesy the moment felt. Frankel and McKenna were geniuses at keeping things numb in the first go-round, but now they add a romantic subplot between Andy and an Australian apartment contractor (Patrick Brammall) that detracts from platonic workplace relationships — it's fan service that I'm not sure fans really want. Miranda has also found love again, and the role of her new husband is so small that I kept trying to convince myself that the actor couldn't really be the great Kenneth Branagh.

Justin Theroux has a flashier, funnier role as billionaire Benji Barnes who, every time you see him, is talking about another silly idea or laughing about how a civilization-destroying disaster in Pompeii looms on the horizon. It's terrifying that he refers to “humans” in the third person, as if he no longer considers himself one of our species. Given the film's interest in figures who eviscerate journalism and how his character's ex-wife (Lucy Liu) refers to their marriage as “a rocket into a hall of mirrors,” it's Jeff Bezos with a dash of Elon Musk. The timing is right, as Bezos is sponsoring the Met Gala in May, wrapping the Wintour-chaired event in his brand like a giant cardboard box.

But enough of what “The Devil Wears Prada 2” has to say about the economy. What are the clothes like? Aesthetically, I loved Andy and Miranda's stylish menswear looks, lots of stylish vests and blazers. Narratively, your characters (a heroine and her nemesis) shouldn't dress like they can swap wardrobes. On the other hand, here they are aligned as champions of art, beauty and the press, shoulder to shoulder in the almost desperate fight to protect Runway from the philistines. The real demons wear Fitbits.