I didn’t think The Devil Wears Prada 2 would make me cry, but it did. All the fashiony high camp, all the sharp one-liners of the first movie (“By all means, move at a glacial pace, you know how that thrills me”) deliquesce into melancholy for a struggling media industry in the second film. We meet the older Andy Sachs (Anne Hathaway) – the put-upon assistant of Runway editor Miranda Priestly (Meryl Streep) in the original movie – when she and her newspaper colleagues are receiving an award for investigative reporting. Except that at precisely that moment they are laid off, by text message. Perfectly realistic: swathes of the Washington Post, including Pulitzer finalists and correspondents in war zones, suffered a similar fate (in this case, sacking by email subject field) in February.
I didn’t think it would make me feel so nostalgic, either. The original Devil Wears Prada came out in 2006. Watching this thinly disguised portrait of American Vogue then was fun. I had served my apprenticeship at Condé Nast, at British Vogue and The World of Interiors, and I felt some vague kinship with Andy and her terrible blue jumper, who arrives a sceptic, goes native, then leaves for her true calling at a progressive newspaper. But now, 20 years on, other feelings crowd in. As my former Vogue colleague Louise Chunn wrote in the New Statesman recently, in the 1990s we had no idea we were working “at the high watermark of the circulation and power of the glossy magazine industry”. When those enormous, thick-papered tomes thunked down on our desks at Vogue House (which they literally did, hand delivered) they were so solid, so reassuring, so full of the promise of glamour and gorgeousness, that we thought it would go on for ever.
