The Devil Wears Prada 2 feels like a film built entirely for ageing millennials desperate to step back into Runway and recover some faint trace of youth.

The problem is that the world of The Devil Wears Prada has been dragged kicking and screaming into 2026, and it no longer serves the same purpose. The original story was a closed circuit. It did not need rewiring, polishing, soldering, or further explanation.

Yes, it is nice to spend time with these characters again. But almost immediately, the sequel exposes itself as a cash grab: hollow, empty, and desperately searching for something to do after Andy’s transformation.

Meryl Streep’s Miranda is no longer the terrifying editor-in-chief of Runway. Instead, she feels like a casualty of changing attitudes, softened into a character who should never have become a victim in her own world.

Emily’s arc is even harder to believe. She would not have become this bitter, calculated figure. People like Emily succeed. They are useful, sharp, and worth having on any team. She would not have needed to stoop this low.

Andy, at least, has grown into someone with fire and enthusiasm for the industry she once stumbled into. But morally, she still feels worryingly fragile. If Miranda offered her visibility, she would snap like a twig.

Stanley Tucci is also there, playing the same fabulous note he plays in almost everything, until Miranda suddenly needs him and they are treated like lifelong bosom buddies.

Oh, and Lady Gaga turns up too. Even Madonna gets shafted.

I am almost offended by how bad this film is. No doubt someone involved will dress it up as a deeply introspective piece about the grim machinery of a cut-throat industry.

It is not.

It is simply a bad film.

That is all.