By now, you’ve probably read at least ten think pieces, hot takes, and “unpopular opinions” on The Devil Wears Prada 2. And if you’re really committed to the discourse, we also hope you’ve read our thoughts on the movie too (shameless plug, we know). If not, well… you can always catch up here before continuing your deep dive.
Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, let’s be honest: as an OG Devil Wears Prada fan, the sequel didn’t exactly give us everything we wanted. Maybe that’s on us for expecting too much from a sequel because cinema has repeatedly taught us that the second instalment almost never hits quite like the first. Still, while everyone else debates whether the sequel worked or not, we’re here asking a completely different question: why didn’t we get a prequel instead?
Because if there’s one character whose backstory deserves its own movie, it’s Miranda Priestly. The icy stares, the impossible standards, the whispered “that’s all” none of that just appeared overnight. We want the rise of Miranda Priestly. The ambition. The sacrifices. The fashion world politics. The moment she became the Miranda Priestly.
We Never Got To See The Making Of Miranda Priestly
The Miranda we met in the original film already had everything: influence, authority, connections, and a reputation strong enough to make grown adults panic over a missing skirt. But nobody becomes that powerful overnight.
A prequel could have shown us a younger Miranda trying to survive in a ruthless industry long before she became the editor everyone feared. Was she always cold and intimidating, or did the fashion world slowly shape her into that person? Did she have mentors? Rivals? Was there a moment where she realised softness would never get her taken seriously?
That story feels infinitely more compelling than watching characters from the original reunite years later for the sake of fan service.
The Fashion World Would Have Been Even More Fascinating
One of the best parts of The Devil Wears Prada was its glamorous yet brutally competitive depiction of fashion media. Now imagine that world decades earlier — before influencers, before TikTok trends, before brands chased virality every five business minutes.
A Miranda prequel set during the golden age of print magazines could have been visually incredible. The old-school editor rivalries, the politics behind magazine covers, the chaotic runway culture, the obsession with exclusivity — it would have felt glamorous in a completely different way.
And honestly, watching Miranda build an empire in a male-dominated media industry sounds far more dramatic than another “where are they now?” storyline.
Miranda’s Personal Life Was Always The Most Intriguing Mystery
For someone so central to the story, we actually know very little about Miranda beyond her work persona. The original film briefly hinted at her failing marriage and the loneliness that came with her success, but never explored it deeply.
A prequel could have finally shown the emotional cost of becoming Miranda Priestly. What did she sacrifice to get where she is? Did she lose relationships along the way? Was there ever a version of her that believed she could balance ambition and personal happiness?
Those glimpses of vulnerability in the original movie were some of its strongest moments because they reminded us that underneath the intimidating exterior was still a woman constantly carrying impossible expectations.
Miranda Priestly Was Probably Once An Emily Herself
One of the most interesting things a prequel could have explored is the possibility that Miranda Priestly was once exactly like Emily — overworked, desperate to prove herself, constantly chasing approval in an industry built on impossible standards.
Because the truth is, Miranda didn’t create that culture alone. She survived it first.
The original film subtly suggests that Miranda values perfection because she had to fight to earn her place in a world that likely never made room for softness, mistakes, or vulnerability. That makes her relationship with Emily even more interesting in hindsight. Emily worships Miranda, fears her, and exhausts herself trying to meet expectations that are almost impossible to satisfy. But what if Miranda sees a younger version of herself in that ambition?
A prequel could have explored how power changes people in competitive industries. Maybe Miranda started out eager, hardworking, and hungry for validation — only to eventually become the very person younger employees feared. And that’s what makes her character so compelling: she isn’t simply “mean.” She represents what happens when survival and success become more important than everything else.
Why The Sequel Never Fully Worked
One of the biggest reasons the The Devil Wears Prada sequel feels underwhelming is because it never truly updates itself for the world we live in now. The original film worked because it perfectly captured a very specific era of fashion media which was a time when magazine editors were cultural gatekeepers, print publications held immense power and people genuinely waited for the September issue like it was an international event.
But the sequel never seriously asks the obvious question: how would someone like Miranda Priestly survive in today’s digital world?
Fashion journalism has changed dramatically. Print magazines no longer dominate culture the way they once did. Influencers now sit front row beside editors. Trends move at the speed of TikTok. Luxury brands rely on viral moments and social media engagement more than carefully curated editorial spreads. Yet the sequel barely explores any of this tension in a meaningful way.
And that feels like a missed opportunity because Miranda Priestly existing in the age of algorithms could have been fascinating.
Would she refuse to adapt? Would she secretly despise influencer culture while being forced to rely on it? Would Runway struggle financially? Would Miranda see social media as beneath her – or weaponise it better than everyone else? The sequel touches these ideas lightly but never dives deep enough to make them emotionally or intellectually compelling.
Instead, the film often feels trapped between wanting to preserve the nostalgia of the original and acknowledging the reality of the modern media landscape. And unfortunately, nostalgia alone cannot carry a story.
The original movie also succeeded because it understood ambition and workplace culture in a very sharp way. Andy Sachs entered an environment that demanded complete devotion to work, perfection, and status. But today’s work culture conversations are completely different. Younger generations openly discuss burnout, toxic workplaces, exploitation, and work-life balance. A modern sequel could have explored whether Miranda’s leadership style would still be admired today or criticised entirely.
Those are the kinds of questions the sequel needed to ask.
Instead, it often plays things too safely, relying on callbacks and familiar dynamics rather than truly challenging its own characters. That is ultimately why the sequel struggles to feel necessary. It revisits the world of The Devil Wears Prada without fully examining how drastically that world has changed.
Back then, fashion magazines felt untouchable. Editors were gatekeepers of culture. They decided what trends mattered, which designers would rise, and even what people would aspire to look like. A single magazine cover could define an entire season. There was mystery to the industry. Distance. Exclusivity. Fashion wasn’t designed to feel accessible rather it was aspirational.
People waited for the September issue because magazines represented authority. Taste had hierarchy back then. Whether people agreed with editors or not publications like Runway in the film symbolised expertise built over years of experience, connections, and creative vision.
Now, fashion moves at the speed of scrolling.
Trends are born and die within days on TikTok. Influencers often have more reach than editors who spent decades in the industry. Algorithms shape visibility more than artistic direction does. The industry that once thrived on exclusivity now depends on constant accessibility and instant engagement.
And maybe that is why a character like Miranda Priestly feels so interesting today. She represents an era where fashion was curated carefully instead of consumed endlessly.
But there’s also irony in romanticising that older system too much. The world of fashion magazines was glamorous, yes, but it was also deeply hierarchical, intimidating, and often inaccessible. The power editors held could make or break careers overnight. People sacrificed personal lives, health, and individuality in pursuit of approval from industries built on perfectionism.
Today’s fashion landscape may feel oversaturated and chaotic, but it is also more democratic in certain ways. New voices can emerge without waiting for the approval of elite publications. Independent creators can shape trends from their bedrooms instead of corner offices in Manhattan.
And perhaps that is why so many fans keep returning to the idea of a prequel instead. A prequel would not have needed to force old characters into a modern setting that the story seems hesitant to fully engage with. It could have explored the rise of fashion media at its peak, while giving audiences deeper insight into the character everyone remains obsessed with: Miranda Priestly.
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