The delicious snark isn’t quite as evident, and a greater degree of sentimentality is present, but everything else about this long-awaited sequel is spot-on.
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| When a panicked Andy (Anne Hathaway) confesses that she has nothing appropriate to wear for a weekend gathering at her boss' home in the Hamptons, Nigel (Stanley Tucci) comes to her rescue. |
This actually is a good thing, since it allows McKenna to lace her character-driven plot with thoughtful — and rather unsettling — issues that are relevant here and now (although fans who enjoyed Weisberger’s two subsequent novels might be disappointed).
The story audaciously opens on twin crises.
Andy Sachs (Hathaway), having followed through with her long-ago decision to leave Runway magazine in order to become a professional reporter, receives a prestigious journalism award for a particularly hard-hitting series of articles. Alas, seconds before her name is announced as the winner, Andy and all of her key New York Vanguard colleagues — everybody sitting at the same table — are fired. By text. Victims of “corporate restructuring.”
Over at Runway, imperious editor-in-chief Miranda Priestly (Streep) faces a catastrophe, having failed to properly research an article about a clothing brand that has been revealed to rely on sweatshop labor. Advertisers begin to panic, and social media lights up with outrage and demeaning memes; Irv Ravitz (Tibor Feldman), owner of Runway’s parent company Elias-Clarke, is apoplectic.
Perhaps worse, Miranda cannot respond with the level of blistering waspishness that characterized her every interaction in the first film; a long series of HR complaints have left her verbally muzzled, forced to pivot to insufferable PC alternatives. One of the film’s funniest running gags involves Streep’s exasperated expression every time Miranda’s current assistant, Amari (Simone Ashley), quietly tut-tuts and forestalls an impending gaffe.
Seeking to hasten damage control, and made aware of Andy’s recent award, Irv figures she’d be the one to write an appropriately balanced and sincere mea culpa. He offers her a position as Runway’s features editor; astonished at this miraculous turn of events, she accepts.
But this isn’t exactly good fortune, because Irv made this decision without consulting Miranda. Andy arrives for her first day, expecting the reunion with her long-ago boss to be welcoming; Miranda is furious ... and adds guilt to Andy’s dismay, by coldly pointing out that Runway’s current features editor has been kicked to the curb.
Fortunately, fashion director Nigel Kipling (Tucci) is genuinely happy to see Andy again. He also explains that much of Miranda’s frustrated hostility results from the way her world has changed. Runway’s print edition has few readers, forcing the brand to resort to clickbait and cheap, quickly generated short-form social media content (which, no doubt, led to the current calamity).
Undeterred, Andy embraces the challenge for which she was hired, starting with the necessary apologia, which is well received by media watchdogs. Miranda, far from impressed, points out that the piece got “very few views” ... which is all that matters. The same proves true of Andy’s subsequent “serious” articles.
Meanwhile, Miranda has been forced to placate Dior — a key advertiser — by offering a multi-page puff piece. Andy is delighted to discover that one of Dior’s senior executives is Emily Charlton (Blunt), who also has risen gracefully from the ashes of her long-ago position as one of Miranda’s harried assistants. The pleasure appears one-sided; Emily, having fully embraced this snobbish realm of conspicuous consumption, recalls that Andy abandoned it, lest she become similarly shallow and egotistical.
With all this as mere entry point, rest assured that many additional pots will be stirred, along with yet another crisis or two. Everything climaxes during Italy’s semi-annual Milan Fashion Week.
The pointed social commentary aside, McKenna’s story gets its emotional heft from the key relationships between these characters: most notably the affectionate warmth that radiates between Andy and Nigel. But Andy’s interactions with Miranda and Emily are equally important, and well developed; she also meets-cute with Peter (Patrick Brammall, totally charming), an apartment renovator with whom she begins a relationship.
Streep has fun with her character’s imperious bearing; even Miranda’s smallest gestures are laden with implication. Her frosty smile rarely evokes sincerity, and her penetrating gaze always suggests Machiavellian cunning. Blunt’s Emily is similarly aloof and frosty, except when with new boyfriend Benji Barnes (Justin Theroux), a Silicon Valley-based billionaire. In his presence, Emily is oddly, uncharacteristically fawning.
Tucci makes Nigel the epitome of congenial savoir-faire; there’s no question that he cares deeply for Andy. Kenneth Branagh is a similarly welcome breath of benevolence as Miranda’s husband, Stuart; Tracie Thoms makes a well-received return as Andy’s best friend, Lily.
Streep’s imposing star wattage notwithstanding, Hathaway once again takes center stage. Andy is our surrogate: still the resilient, intelligent, heart-on-sleeve optimist determined to somehow make the world a better place. Yes, her idealism has taken several hits along the way, evidenced by the occasional quiet disappointment in Hathaway’ expression ... but we can’t help admiring Andy’s stubborn pluck.
Lady Gaga takes the spotlight during the climax in Milan, and sharp-eyed celebrity watchers will be rewarded with brief glimpses of Donatella Versace, Ashley Graham, Heidi Klum, Jon Batiste, Naomi Campbell and other fashion icons.
Character drama aside, this film is buoyed constantly by costume designer Molly Rogers’ opulent creations: a veritable explosion of colorful haute couture. Hathaway always rocks the countless outfits into which she’s poured, and Tucci is similarly debonair. (That said, some of the supposed “high fashion” is so bizarre, that I wondered if the film is making fun of its own environment.)
We don’t get as many quotable one-liners, although this one — “Let the bridges I burn, light my way” — is particularly pungent.
I also worry that some of the story’s wicked amusement may be offset by its unashamed embrace of so much obscene wealth, at a time when a rapidly increasingly percentage of its viewers have trouble making ends meet. This disparity has changed greatly, during the past two decades.
If you can get past that, though, this film is a hoot.
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