Much like wearing white after Labor Day, a “Devil Wears Prada” sequel is a godawful idea.
But Disney is reportedly in talks to crank another out nearly 20 years after Meryl Streep, Anne Hathaway and Emily Blunt first starred in the 2006 millennial classic about an evil editrix at a Vogue-like magazine.
Why can’t Diz just let sleeping duds lie?
The pitch for the foolish followup, according to Puck News, is a black hole of fun: Glossy fashion mags are crumbling in the 2020s (true!) and Runway editor Miranda Priestly is desperate for advertising dollars.
So she’s pitted against her former assistant Emily (Blunt), who controls the ad spend for a luxury brand firm.
That dreary plot makes MSNBC look like a fizzy escape to forget all your troubles.
It’s understandable why “Devil” Deux is so tantalizing for the House of Mouse. The original, which they acquired with the purchase of 20th Century Fox, is one of the most rewatchable comedies of the past two decades. Streep, who was Oscar-nominated for the part, is a smash in the title role.
A new chapter means box office revenue, streams, licensing opportunities, Disney+ subscriptions and, in a refreshing change, no $100 million special effects budget.
Another draw surely is that Priestly is, of course, based on Vogue’s Anna Wintour.
The feared editor is not only still lording over the mag — she’s far more powerful than she was in 2006. Wintour is now the all of Condé Nast’s Artistic Director and Global Chief Content Director.
No doubt some overeager Disney executive is insisting in meetings that there are still more stories to tell.
The reality, though, is that the high-flying, sexy world of media and power-brokers that made “The Devil Wears Prada” so intoxicating back in 2006 is long dead.
And the New York of “Sex and the City,” as HBO’s unwatchable continuation “And Just Like That…” has exhaustingly proved, is unrecognizable too.
Expense-account lunches, constantly-ringing phones and even full-capacity offices packed with gossips and “clackers” are over. People eat dinner at 5 p.m.!
Manhattanites, to anyone with eyes, don’t dress as well as they used to either. And joyless Fashion Week is cluttered by political statements and beige androgyny.
Wintour distracts herself from the avalanche of change by attending Broadway shows and international tennis tournaments. But Disney can’t very well make a movie about Miranda’s hobbies.
Will the woman have to contend with 400 angry young employees staging an office walkout, just as Condé staffers did down at One World Trade in the wake of their January layoff announcement?
Should we expect anti-Israel protestors to interrupt a fictionalized version of the Met Gala like the march in May?
I guarantee nobody will be soup-shaming colleagues in the cutthroat cafeteria anymore, as Stanley Tucci’s sassy Nigel did, for fear of HR or worse — social media cancelation.
In fact, Miranda’s entire modus operandi of cruelty — calling her assistant “the smart, fat girl,” repeating the wrong first name — and punishing, 24/7 standards no longer flies. Unfortunately, that’s what makes her so delicious to watch.
“Prada” in the present is a size 6 attempting to squeeze into a zero, as I saw in Elton John’s atrocious musical version of the film two years ago in Chicago. That take was moved forward into 2022, and thus was cluttered by wrongheaded political overtones.
Miranda, for instance mocked her Gen Z underling saying, “Who has time for fashion when democracy’s at stake?!”
The dreadful show, which cost millions and had its sights set on Broadway, was hammered by critics.
A few days ago it began previews in Plymouth, England, where it’s being completely reworked — new director, new cast, new songs, new script — far away from the prying eyes of The Post.
And, you guessed it, it’s been kicked back to 2006.
Where “Prada” belongs.
