When I say, “The Devil Wears Prada”, you say, “greasy cheese sandwiches, dreamy-eyed men in Paris and monochromatic brown outfits”. It’s one of my comfort films. Perfect for the winter, when all you want is a well-known script and glimpses of Stanley Tucci’s bald head.
I recently saw clips of the masterpiece, and you know what that means; I have thoughts. In my opinion, The Devil Wears Prada was not a story of feminist triumph or a celebration of integrity. Rather, it provides a subtle yet ominous reminder that even when we think we have subverted Goliath, the beast always wins.