A Gen Z Review Of Devil Wears Prada: Why This Iconic Film Feels Both Empowering And Problematic Today

I was five years old when The Devil Wears Prada first released in 2006, far too young to understand the world it captured, and perhaps just young enough for it to quietly become a cultural reference I'd grow up hearing about. 

Watching it for the first time now in 2026, nearly two decades later and just ahead of the release of the sequel (which is set to release on May 1), feels less like discovering a film and more like finally catching up with a legacy, one that's been waiting to be reinterpreted through a very different and far more aware lens.

Watching The Devil Wears Prada in 2026 as a Gen Z viewer feels a bit like opening a time capsule that is still strangely relevant: glossy, sharp, intoxicating, and yet riddled with contradictions that are impossible to ignore today.

At its most irresistible, the film is pure cinematic pleasure. The world of Runway is styled like a dream you don't quite trust but can't look away from. The clothes, the pace, the absurd urgency over hemlines and seating charts, it all builds a universe that is both ridiculous and aspirational. 

You understand why Andy (Anne Hathaway) stays, why "a million girls would kill for that job," and more importantly, why part of you thinks you might too. 

The film captures ambition in its most seductive form: not as a noble pursuit, but as something thrilling, consuming, and dangerously validating.

A huge part of why this works is the performances. Meryl Streep as Miranda Priestly isn't just iconic, she's quietly terrifying in a way that feels more real than any loud, caricatured villain. She doesn't scream, she dismantles. She doesn't demand, she expects. And that calm authority is what makes her so compelling. You understand her power even when you don't agree with it. 

Anne Hathaway brings a believable arc to Andy, transitioning from awkward outsider to someone who begins to mirror the very world she once judged. 

Emily Blunt is razor-sharp as Emily, turning sarcasm into both armour and personality, while Stanley Tucci adds warmth and quiet depth as Nigel, arguably the film's emotional anchor. Even today, the ensemble feels perfectly calibrated.

But watching it now, the film's cracks are impossible to unsee.

The most glaring discomfort comes from its casual body-shaming, something that early 2000s media normalised but Gen Z has little patience for. 

The line "I thought I would give the smart fat girl a chance" lands with a thud today, not just because it's cruel, but because the film doesn't meaningfully interrogate it. 

Andy, who is objectively thin by any standard, is framed as needing transformation, and weight loss is treated as both achievement and acceptance. 

Emily's extreme dieting, played for dark humour, edges into something far more disturbing when viewed through a contemporary lens that is more aware of disordered eating and toxic beauty standards.

Then there's the question of feminism, or rather, the film's complicated relationship with it. 

On the surface, this is a woman-led narrative set in a female-dominated industry, driven by ambition, power, and skill. It passes the Bechdel test effortlessly. And yet, the film often undercuts its own progressiveness. 

Miranda, one of the most powerful women on screen, is framed through a familiar trope: the successful woman who must be personally unfulfilled. Her failing marriage becomes a quiet cautionary tale, reinforcing the idea that professional success for women comes at the cost of personal happiness. It doesn't outright say it, but it doesn't challenge it either.

Andy's arc complicates things further. Her transformation is framed as growth. She becomes sharper, more capable, more aware. And to be fair, it is growth. She learns the value of effort, of understanding industries she once dismissed, of not equating femininity with superficiality. The cerulean speech remains one of the film's most brilliant moments precisely because it dismantles that smug "I'm above this" attitude. 

But the film struggles to fully commit to this evolution. By the end, her return to her boyfriend feels less like a choice and more like a moral correction, as if ambition needed to be tempered, or even punished.

That relationship, in particular, doesn't sit well today. Nate isn't just "concerned", he's dismissive and quietly condescending. He resents Andy's growth because it disrupts his comfort. 

Dialogues like "I wouldn't care if you were out there pole-dancing all night, as long as you did it with a little integrity" don't read as protective, they read as patronising. 

The film, however, softens him in the end, almost validating his perspective, which feels deeply out of sync with how Gen Z views supportive partnerships.

Equally frustrating is the lack of genuine sisterhood. For a film centred around women, it leans heavily into competition rather than camaraderie. Emily and Andy are pitted against each other, their dynamic driven by rivalry instead of solidarity. 

Miranda operates in isolation, respected but not supported. The only real emotional guidance Andy receives comes from Nigel, a man who unintentionally reinforces the idea that women in power cannot coexist without conflict. 

In a cultural moment that actively values collaboration over competition among women, this feels like a missed opportunity.

And yet, despite all of this, the film endures.

Because beneath its dated elements is something sharply observed and still relevant: the seductive nature of toxic workplaces. The way ambition can blur your boundaries. The way validation from the wrong person can feel like success. 

Andy's slow transformation isn't just about fashion, it's about identity, about how easily we reshape ourselves to fit systems that reward us just enough to keep us hooked. That tension still resonates, perhaps even more in a generation hyper-aware of hustle culture and burnout.

Two decades on, The Devil Wears Prada remains iconic not because it gets everything right, but because it captures ambition in all its messy, seductive contradictions. 

It's a film that makes you want the life it simultaneously warns you about. And perhaps that's why it still lingers, because long after the clothes, the quotes, and the glamour fade, what stays is that uneasy question it leaves you with: how much of yourself are you willing to trade to become the person you think you want to be?