An even more depressing and luxury-obsessed sequel

The Devil Wears Prada was, in part, a film about a trio: the one a journalist (played by Anne Hathaway) had with her partner and her all-consuming job at a fashion magazine with a despotic editor-in-chief embodied by Meryl Streep. More than a satire or a black comedy, the film seemed like a fairy tale of a surprise princess with a sad undertone that was never fully explored. Its late continuation is a sequel with something of a remake: although the characters had already completed their evolution, or lack thereof, the situations and conflicts are very similar to those previously presented.

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