A sequel even more depressing and fascinated by luxury

The Devil Wears Prada was, in part, a film about a trio: the one that a journalist (played by Anne Hathaway) maintained with her partner and with her absorbing job in a fashion magazine with a despotic director embodied by Meryl Streep. More than a satire or a black comedy, the film seemed like a surprise princess romantic fable with a sad background that was not fully explored. Its late continuation is a sequel with something of a remake: even though the characters had already completed their evolution, or their lack of evolution, the situations and conflicts are very similar to those previously raised.

Now everything is even more depressing, because the professionals (director included) are like pinballs that collide at the whim of various magnates and who can only look for a patron to save them from the shipwreck of journalism, magazines, and everything that sinks (like medium-budget films?). This powerlessness, however, is once again covered by an overwhelming audiovisual hyperstimulation of movement and songs, humanized by the glimmers of life brought by the less caricatured characters. The spectacle seems as fascinated by luxury and brands as the videos of influencers ultra-capitalists, and perhaps the best thing about this calculatedly predictable proposal is that the target audience will be able to enjoy a story that begins and has a certain conclusion. And that is not a small thing in a Hollywood thirsty for franchises without endings.