I watched The Devil Wears Prada (2006) when I was around 11 years old with my mum, a former model and film extra who was at the height of her hedonism in the 90s. It was near the top of a very long list of what I like to call her ‘Almond Mum Musts’; a heady collection of 90s and early 2000s films and TV shows that she either appeared in (About A Boy) or that she lived by (Confessions of a Shopaholic). They pretty much all starred wispy poster girls for the heroin chic aesthetic. The irony of my mother’s love for the film was not lost on me. It criticises a lot of the things that she loves. She is somewhat of an Emily; obsessed with clothes, a worshipper of celebrity, and constantly at war with carbohydrates. I, on the other hand, saw myself as an Andy. I was awkward and bookish, with chipmunk-like features and an inexplicable love for electric blue leggings. Now, don’t misunderstand me—I was very happy with who I was at the time. I look back on that little girl with glowing pride. But, at that time in my life, I knew that the Runway magazine office would not have welcomed me and my blue leggings with open arms. My dearest darling mother clearly had high hopes for my fashion career and tried oh-so-subtly to nudge me into modeling when I was little. Alas, she did not succeed.
By the time I had finished school, I was (unsurprisingly) not a model. Despite finding myself in the not-too-dissimilar performing arts industry, I still found myself turning my nose up at the fashion world and looking down on those who didn’t. Perhaps because I was bitter that I thought I didn’t fit. Even at the ripe old age of 19, I still hadn’t fully shifted the misguided and, I now realise, subtly misogynistic and homophobic notion that fashion is just shallow, frivolous, and mindless. While I recognise that there are still many issues that run rampant in the industry (such as classism, racism, fatphobia, environmental injustice, to name but a few) and taint the values of self expression, artistic merit, and cultural history that are undeniably a part of the legacy of many designers, the world of fashion as a whole is not without value. Fashion, like other industries and art forms that also have their shallow, frivolous, and mindless corners, is also rich with potential for cultural change and positive influence. As I watched The Devil Wears Prada 2 (2026), I saw these potentials unfolding into a glittering, hopeful (if slightly cliche) reality. Andy’s late nights in her comically cramped office, given to her by the ever-ruthless Miranda Priestly in an attempt to belittle the Features department, reminded me of the tireless impulse behind the work of most journalists: we write because we care. Yes, sometimes we, like Andy, have to churn out pieces that seem pointless or superficial to us. Sometimes we have to play the game to get people’s attention and make a change. And fashion sure as hell gets people’s attention.
The plot of The Devil Wears Prada 2 (2026) is thus: Andy is brought in to run the Features department after a PR crisis threatens Runway’s reputation. Her goal is not only to increase engagement, but to bring serious, socially conscious journalism to a decades-old institution facing massive change in the digital age. However, after reviewing the metrics and receiving an earful from the magazine’s owner about the lack of reader engagement with the Features, Miranda firmly reminds Andy that it is all well and good bringing new readers to Runway, readers that already care about so-called serious journalism, but she needs to do it without pushing away the readers that they already have. And I think Miranda has a point. I truly believe that part of the purpose and joy of good journalism is making people care about an issue that they might not have even noticed before picking up your article. Andy spends the start of the film resisting her return to Runway, seeing it as a regression and longing for the moment she can return to so-called real journalism. Like my 19-year-old self, she turns her nose up at everything that she thinks Runway represents. But, as she does this, she subconsciously ostracises a major section of her readership and forecloses the opportunity for them to care about what she has to say. I wanted to shake her and tell her that she doesn’t have to dumb it down or simplify her point to make people listen; she doesn’t have to compromise her journalistic integrity. She just needs to actually form a meaningful connection with them; she needs to speak to them. As the film progresses, Andy begins to care more and more about the content and message that she is communicating through Runway, perhaps despite herself. In the process, she grows to genuinely care for the magazine, as well as the ever-terrifying but decidedly human Miranda.
So, the girl who had once cheered on Andy Sachs’ defiance, laughed along with her at the supposedly indistinguishable shades of blue, and whooped for joy when she escaped Miranda Priestly’s manicured clutches was sitting in seat F9 of the Curzon Cinema in Oxford on a Tuesday night, looking up at that big screen thinking ‘I see my future and it is bright’. But I had to stop and ask myself a serious question. Does Andy sell out, or does she play the game and win, not just for herself but for those who want to change institutions from the inside out? For my entire academic career, I have felt the need to marry fashion, trends, the mainstream, and pop culture with cultural criticism, global affairs, political opinion, and human interest because, to me, these cannot be kept separate; they’re all intertwined. The overwrought distinction between so-called high brow and low brow culture that many haughtily try to reinforce disintegrates when you peel back the intertextual layers of influence and context behind trends in fashion. And these influences slide along the scale, from personal or local to global. As Laura Antonia Jordan articulated in Artful Living in 2022, “[politics] encompasses everything from the boardroom (office politics) to the bedroom (sexual politics). Both definitions are about not just asserting our beliefs, but ourselves. And isn’t fashion too about asserting our private selves in a very public way?”
The film ends (SPOILER ALERT) with Miranda, Nigel, and Andy all in beautiful, big offices next to each other, busy at work in front of their New York City skyline views. Runway magazine is safe, the features department is thriving, fashion is still fashion, and Andy keeps the journalistic integrity that she was so sure Runway was going to rob from her at the beginning of the film.
So, as I strut into the Old Bodleian Library in my cowboy boots, black sunglasses, and faux leather trench coat with a Hamlet tucked under my arm and a pop culture podcast in my headphones, I like to think of Andy Sachs. I like to remind myself that fashion, the mainstream, the ostensibly low brow, does not kill journalistic integrity. They are not inherently incompatible. Pop culture and aesthetics are not divorced from meaningful messages and serious topics. Age old institutions can change and grow and diversify. Journalism is always serious, always alive, as long as we are serious about it. And who says we can’t be serious with a little bit of flare?