The Devil Wears Prada Review

Fox bought the rights to Lauren Weisberger's novel, widely read as a portrait of her old boss at Vogue, Anna Wintour, before the book was finished, and the film was greenlit only once Meryl Streep agreed to play Miranda Priestly. Aline Brosh McKenna's script improves on the book by giving Miranda a point of view: the speech in which she traces Andy's lumpy blue sweater back through the industry that chose its color turns a punchline into an argument about who decides taste.

Streep never raises her voice. She took Miranda's near whisper from Clint Eastwood, and her bored precision makes every dismissal land harder than a shout; the role brought her a 14th Oscar nomination. Emily Blunt, as the first assistant clinging to her place on the Paris trip, is the film's sharpest comic weapon, and Stanley Tucci gives Nigel, the Runway veteran who remakes Andy's wardrobe, a wry warmth. Anne Hathaway is an appealing anchor, though Andy is written as a type.

The story is where it thins. Andy's path from frump to fashion plate to reformed idealist is predictable from the first act, and the boyfriend who resents her job drags down every scene he is in. The performances and McKenna's barbed writing for Miranda carry it well past that ordinary story. It grossed $327 million worldwide, and Streep and Hathaway returned for a sequel in 2026.