It started a month ago. “Are you going to see the movie?” a mom asked me after morning drop-off. Was she talking about Hoppers? A forthcoming playdate at a Mandalorian & Grogu screening? I looked at her blankly.
And then: “You know, the one about where you work…”
Let’s get the obvious out of the way: The Devil Wears Prada is entertainment. Little of what you will see onscreen in the original (or the sequel) bears any resemblance to reality. Nonetheless, at the end of the screening many members of the Vogue staff attended this week, one colleague turned to me with a slightly ashen look. “Did they bug our offices?” she whispered.
There were, shall we say, a few things that cut a bit close to the bone—not unlike the original book, as outlined in stylist Leslie Fremar’s revealing recent interview for our podcast.
The sequel concerns Andy Sachs’s return to Runway—now as the features editor. After the magazine’s parent company faces a PR crisis, Andy, who has spent the intervening decades toiling away on noble journalistic pursuits like three-part investigations of the Federal Reserve, is hired to burnish the glossy’s reputation with mea culpa blog posts and capital-S serious journalism—or so she hopes.
I have spent most of my time at Vogue telling people that The Devil Wears Prada doesn’t remotely reflect my working life. That argument is aided by the fact that while an awareness of fashion is a prerequisite for working here, my job is firmly outside the fashion trenches. I dart out of the way of the rolling racks whizzing around the floor; I’m not pushing them. I’ve been to about half a dozen shoots in my almost decade working here—enough to convince me my presence wasn’t much appreciated. I have stacks of books on my desk and a single pair of shoes under it.
But the sequel seemed to offer a different proposition—a features editor (the star of the film, no less) stepping in to save the day? A fact-check was called for.
Andy’s Friends
Film: A motley crew of wizened journos—the types who attend awards dinners at Midtown hotels where the tables are round and have no centerpieces. There’s one (Tracie Thoms, reprising her role as Andy’s scold-y friend Lily) who, judging by the real estate she occupies, seems to have made good with her gallery.
Reality: I, too, have friends who own art galleries and have multiple boxes of Maldon salt on their open kitchen shelves. Pantry props may be about where the similarities end. The only people I know with Manhattan lofts like Lily’s have inhabited them since the ’70s. At the start of my career I worked in Washington, D.C., so I keep many wonky types close to my heart. They dress better than these caricatures, but they would really dig a three-part investigation of the Federal Reserve.
Andy’s Apartment
Film: Andy’s promotion allows her to move on up from a charming prewar apartment with a penny-tiled bathroom—Mrs. Meyer’s soap on the sink—dodgy plumbing, and New Yorker totes hanging on the hooks, to a deluxe (soulless) condo in a hollowed-out historic building.
Reality: I don’t think that even the most far-from-fashion of the features editors would happily reside in the cookie-cutter white box that Andy moves into. The dream is living within walking distance of your kids’ school, of course!
Andy’s Clothes
Film: A wardrobe of sensible but stylish blazers paired with jeans and blouses is replaced with outfits my fashion colleagues will have to detail for you—the references are beyond me. When Andy is invited to the Hamptons, she tours the fashion closet with Nigel to pad her roll-y bag with borrowed items.
