This week:
- Why I loved Devil Wears Prada 2.
- Why I loved Lena Dunham’s book.
- Why I loved the J.Lo movie trailer.
- Why I loved Meryl Streep’s speech.
- Why I’ll always love Pizza Hut.
Why Is No One Ready for Fun?
Sometimes, we should just be allowed to have fun.
I don’t know what it is about us right now. Everything is picked apart. It has to have profound meaning. We need to find at least one thing to be outraged about and send into a spin cycle of discourse. Extra cool points are rewarded if the thing ends up being popular and successful, but you take a steaming dump on it.
That is how I feel about The Devil Wears Prada 2, a movie that made me grin ear-to-ear from beginning to end, which, in my opinion, is the entire reason it exists—but which is already being nitpicked to oblivion.
Go see this movie. Go have fun. And then go back to your life. Don’t think too much about it. It’s the whole point.
The film is one big nostalgia orgy.
I don’t think there is a single iconic moment from the original film that isn’t referenced, if not exactly quoted, for the sole purpose of getting the audience to coo and clap when they clock it. Oh, did I coo. And you better believe I clapped.
Anne Hathaway ending the movie wearing a styled-up version of the lumpy cerulean blue sweater that inspired the famous monologue? Pandering as hell! I practically wept!
But I don’t want to undersell the film. It’s not just a stunt show, waiting to be memed. That would hardly warrant a defense. The reason it works so well is that it excavates the emotion that is at the heart of all those beloved moments, earning the fluttering of feeling that happens so often during the film. I noticed many times in the movie that Hathaway just looks at Meryl Streep, tears pooling in her eyes. Honestly, same.
Finding a believable way to reunite these characters is remarkable in its own right. The Devil Wears Prada 2 finds Runway magazine, and, by virtue, Miranda Priestly being canceled for being duped by a problematic fast-fashion brand and running a glowing story about them. Andy is now an award-winning, boots-on-the-ground reporter, brought in by Runway’s owner to bring journalistic credibility back to the magazine. Emily works at Dior, one of the brands Andy is meant to win favor back from after the crisis. Nigel is also there. (Sorry, Nigel, but just “being there” is kind of your thing.)
What makes the movie so fun is that while, sure, there is still an undercurrent of tension and meanness in the relationships between those four cast members, there is also the love that you would hope to see after all these years. The events in the first movie are clearly a trauma for all of them, but also something that bonds them. It sounds cheesy as hell, and maybe it is, but there is a “wow, it is genuinely so nice to see you after all this time” vibe to every interaction these characters have that echoes exactly how you feel while watching. It is genuinely so nice to see these people together again.
It’s also noteworthy how seamlessly the actors slip back into the characters they played two decades ago. Emily Blunt is still so Emily, but it doesn’t come off as a caricature. Stanley Tucci manages to stay the saintly stalwart, while still telegraphing that, after all these years, he is, somehow, wiser. Hathaway is the endearing Andy, but this time with confidence and pride, the way you’d always hoped she’d be. And Streep keeps Miranda the iconic, steely figure she has to be, but, as is the Streep way, finagles the vulnerability everyone would be dying to see if they ever did a sequel like this.
If I were critiquing this movie for a proper film review, sure, there would be things about it that I’d find reason to rip apart. But I had the special gift of just getting to go watch it as a fan.
Because of that, I was taken by surprise. I thought I was just going to watch my favorite characters swan around in designer clothes, snap bitchy quips at each other, and feature in a half dozen montages set to a 1990s earworm.
I was shocked to get all of that, plus an entire side plot about what is lost by the collapse of journalism, how influencers are no replacement for good content, the amount of thankless work it takes right now to keep media brands afloat because the people doing that work believe the mission is worthwhile, and the inanity of the Jeff Bezoses and Lauren Sánchezes of the world, whose lack of taste poisons the value of their money.
There was some inelegance in that messaging, which others have written about, and they are right to. But as far as I’m concerned, getting to watch Streep play Miranda Priestly again and get an ode to the power of journalism? Could I ask for more? No. That’s all.
A Voice. Of a Generation.
I’ve been writing about how smart I think Lena Dunham is long enough that the world’s most insufferable people (straight men) were yelling at me about it on Twitter, and now they’re doing it on X.
I can’t imagine, and certainly not equivocate, what that response has been like for Dunham herself, but I am grateful that, even while people seem so triggered by her candor and general existence, she is still committed to writing about her life in such a refreshingly honest and messy way.
The astonishing thing about rewatching Girls now that I, like Lena, am on the cusp of my “scary age,” is that the show seems even smarter and more profound. How did she write so cleverly about the chaotic experience of being in your twenties during that ridiculous time culturally and, as I certainly experienced, economically, with such insight while she was going through it?
Famesick is very much a check-in. The book, at least in my interpretation, comes from the existential crisis of turning the “scary age,” looking back at all the wonderful and torturous experiences you had earlier in life with a newfound perspective on why they were so poignant, and also, you know what, really s---ty. S---ier than we knew then.
I also, as the least important reason to have loved the book, appreciated how detailed Lena is in Famesick.
Reading it was an interactive experience. At least once a chapter, I would stop to Google the photoshoots and actors and TV appearances she was referencing. “Girls premiere party red carpet.” “Annie Leibowitz photo shoot.” “David Carr interview.” “Jack Antonoff shirtless.”
Lena Dunham will always be a lightning rod. Bring on the stormy weather.
The Number of Times I Will Watch This Movie…
I have never been, as the youths say, “more seated” for a movie than I am for the new Netflix rom-com Office Romance starring Jennifer Lopez and Ted Lasso’s Brett Goldstein.
This is not the first time I’ve made this “joke”—joke is the wrong word, because I’m so serious—I will die as I lived, defending how talented Jennifer Lopez is. My tombstone will read, “J. Lo should have won the Oscar for Hustlers.” My dying gasp will, ironically, be, “Let’s get loud.”
So her doing a classic rom-com is a dream come true. She plays an airline executive who shocks everyone when she mixes work with pleasure and starts dating her lawyer, played by Goldstein.
Beyond the obvious “J.Lo is going to be so good in this stuff,” I’m obsessed with this because Goldstein wrote this movie for himself and for J.Lo as the lead.
This would be like if I wrote a movie for myself in which I’m in a highly sexual polycule with Jonathan Bailey, Chris Messina, and the cast of Heated Rivalry, with the guy who helmed Mamma Mia! Here We Go Again directing. (As if Office Romance wasn’t already intriguing, literally that guy is the director.)
I used to subscribe to the notion of “write what you know.” Now I’m pivoting to, like Goldstein, “write what you want.”
I Just Love Her
It is entirely surprising, but also entirely unsurprising, that I started sobbing while watching Meryl Streep’s tributes to Emily Blunt and Stanley Tucci as they received their stars on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.
Opens in new windowIf you do some Googling and Wikipedia-ing of their lives and what they’ve been through, you’ll know why when Meryl choked up, I did, too.
Make Them Read!
Pizza Hut is reviving its Book It! program this summer. It was a foundational part of my childhood, and possibly the reason why I still love reading today.
Sometimes, corporations are genius: Let’s capitalize on how we’re all just fata--es at heart, and use it for good and make kids read. I have such fond memories of reading—the Boxcar Children series, Goosebumps, Animorphs—and just as fond memories of sitting with my little pizza, drinking out of those red glasses while the faint smell of romaine lettuce wafted from the salad bar.
If you have kids and read this silly newsletter, make sure they sign up for this. And if they read and redeem their pizza, let me know. It will make me so happy.
More From The Daily Beast’s Obsessed
An actual dream come true: I went to the set of Top Chef and dined at its Restaurant Wars episode. I wrote all about the experience. Read more.
Imperfect Women on Apple TV is perhaps the twistiest show I’ve ever watched, so I chatted with the creator to untangle all of it. Read more.
I think every press tour should require that Meryl Streep talk about Goldie Hawn. Read more.
What to Watch This Week:
Hokum: Turns out that Adam Scott is good at this whole intense thriller thing. (Now in theaters)
The Devil Wears Prada 2: I love him, but Nick and I will have to agree to disagree on this. (Now in theaters)
Widow’s Bay: I’m going to need Apple TV to slow down with their must-watch shows. It’s too much. (Now on Apple TV)
What to Skip This Week:
Man of Fire: Not every movie needs to be made into an overlong TV series. (Now on Netflix)
