The Devil Wears Prada
Loving yourself was a novel concept in the 2000s. Before self-love and self-empowerment were toothlessly glommed onto by an ever-expanding consumerist culture, à la Target Pride collections, the unachievable reigned supreme. In the cutthroat New York fashion scene of the aughts, the unachievable was not merely a product advertisement; it was a lifestyle. Beauty was exclusive ever “since two became the new four and zero became the new two,” as Stanley Tucci’s Nigel dryly observes.
Indeed, many characters in The Devil Wears Prada are fractured reflections of this standard. Emily slavishly adheres to the edicts of her fashionable peers, flaunting her starvation with only the whispered dream of “Paris” as sustenance. Though an undeniable asset to the fictional Runway magazine (allegedly based on American Vogue under an authoritarian Anna Wintour), Nigel is perennially overlooked and stagnant, illustrating high fashion’s shameless exploitation of queer artistry and subculture. Laughably, the stunning Anne Hathaway is meant to be the audience’s stand-in for “just your everyday girl,” as Andrea Sachs.
The Devil Wears Prada straddles an uncanny boundary. It plays out as a humorous satire of runway fashion and a sobering depiction of the industry’s predatory commodification of youth and beauty. These dual meanings delineate the audience and critical perspectives of the film; rather intelligently, this dichotomy is rooted in fashion’s unique ability to signal meaning and (pardon the pun) tailor itself to different audiences. It is only a matter of choice.
Meryl Streep’s Miranda Priestly aptly frames this decision in a memorable monologue extolling the virtues of cerulean. Its significance is lost on a cynical Andrea, yet its storied history in the collections of Oscar de la Renta and Yves Saint Laurent apotheosizes its standing in Miranda’s eyes. Her outlook reflects an almost reverential concept of fashion, where knowledge and history jealously guard meaning while cynicism disguises it.
Yet both critics and the general public are increasingly prone to such cynicism. These archetypes are most clearly illustrated by Andrea’s two love interests: Nate Cooper, her unsupportive longtime boyfriend, and the seductive playboy Christian Thompson.
Nate Cooper’s distaste for the frivolities of fashion is more immediately reminiscent of the public’s distaste for designer fashion. But his arrogant disdain belies the general public’s very real qualms with luxury brands: namely, their stubborn and tone-deaf refusal to broaden their exclusive clientele, perpetuating classist, racist, and fatphobic standards. Nate’s outlook flattens these nuanced arguments into an edgy faux-proletariat snark. Though he denigrates her choices throughout the film, Nate is more than happy to take advantage of Andrea’s fashion transformation, the product of her tenure at Runway magazine. It is an incisive commentary on the politics of desirability and the male gaze that Nate is only appreciative of her new position when she is in lingerie. Her marked transition from frumpy sweaters to glamorous trench coats was not merely a glow-up - it was an establishment of agency.
Though marred by an evidently toxic workplace, Andrea’s dogged refusal to cave under Miranda's tyrannical reign is never truly respected by Nate. Indeed, the only real merit he sees in her career is how it benefits him. Her desirability dictates her value, yet the reality of that desirability - the effort, attention to detail, and an outsized focus on superficial features - makes her unattractive. His criticisms are evocative of another misogynistic archetype: men who hate makeup. Rooted in ego and narcissism, they cannot comprehend that a woman’s actions may not be geared toward male gratification. Their preoccupation with bare faces is not borne of some righteous anger toward the companies that commodify beauty but rather an assertion of patriarchy. As more and more women do makeup for themselves and their enjoyment, their looks and aesthetics have largely deviated from the male gaze. By proclaiming this “bare-faced beauty” as the new standard of desirability, misogynistic men demonize feminine agency. This reclaiming holds startling parallels to The Devil Wears Prada, as Andrea’s adherence to more conventional femininity becomes a lightning rod of criticism in the eyes of her peers.
Christian Thompson’s particular brand of cynicism, then, is more fatalistic than prejudiced. His suave indifference to the dark underbelly of the fashion industry is a foil to Andrea’s ingénue: take her wide-eyed shock at finding out about Miranda’s termination versus his condescending smirk. But his unflinching apathy, his paltry consolation that “she’ll be fine,” masks his complicity in Miranda’s firing. That is perhaps the most common criticism of critics, that they institutionalize the very institutions they criticize. They are complicit. As the violent fatphobia in the film demonstrates, critics often carry the very prejudices held by the public (Christian’s disposable, objectifying view of women is blatantly misogynistic).
Yet their inclusion in the industry - as a voice to be valued - has resulted in an emerging sense of nihilism among critics. Their livelihoods are not immediately beholden to the corporations that commodify and profit off exclusionary beauty standards. And so they are meant to be a voice of reason. But The Devil Wears Prada coolly assesses how these critics are not truly immune to the politics of the industry. Their relationship with designers is not that of a kingmaker; it is more symbiotic. Their reputation is established by networking with the very designers under their purview: they must prove themselves by first acquiescing in some respect to the status quo of the industry. Though this seems a vast generalization, the populist critic is not often elevated to sit amongst the designers they dismantle. So, to be a voice of value is to be a voice of submission.
Though they could not be more different in their demeanors, Nate Cooper and Christian Thompson both hold a shockingly transactional view of fashion. Nate’s arrogance dismisses fashion outright, while Christian’s insider knowledge devalues its authenticity in his eyes. But they were never the true focus of The Devil Wears Prada, which places a strong onus on the trials and tribulations of Andrea, Emily, and Miranda. Each has a slightly different relationship with fashion: Andrea reluctantly embraces it, Emily religiously consumes it, and Miranda dogmatically preaches it. Though the industry’s toxicity is undeniable in the pain it causes these three women, The Devil Wears Prada is perhaps the most striking as a love letter to fashion.
The proverbial elephant in the room is Andrea’s choice to (spoiler alert) quit Runway and get back together with Nate, eschewing fashion altogether. Yet I would venture that her continuing goodwill towards Emily and even Miranda is still reflective of the overarching optimism of the movie. In an industry rife with unsustainable practices, The Devil Wears Prada emphatically asserts the virtues of fashion as an art form. Much like the film’s protagonists, fashion is not diminished by cynicism.
It thrives in spite of it.
Written by Athul Mohanram, Photography: Alyssa Moore, Social Media: Camila Ponce, Stying: Sophia Villarreal