“The Devil Wears Prada” was never meant to be a franchise. Despite its pivotal role in the 2006 summer blockbuster season, where it raked in enough cash and glowing word-of-mouth praise to become the 10th most successful film of the season — the only title in the top 10 with a woman at top billing — the movie’s ending didn’t exactly scream sequel. “The Devil Wears Prada” was and is the perfect example of a self-contained story, built by the studio machine but never intended to keep the apparatus running. It’s economical and clever, with deceptively intricate character writing, striking costume design, a uniquely memorable score and soundtrack, loads of witty banter, a distinctly sleek aesthetic, and it’s one of the only films that has ever made multiple montage sequences feel earned.
But look past all that technical prowess, and you’ll find a remarkably introspective story about the complexities of integrity, examining the choices we make and the sacrifices we endure to become truer versions of ourselves. The film is lightning in a bottle, magic that only stands to have its smoke dispersed and mirrors cracked by the unnecessary impositions of the dreaded Hollywood sequel.
