The Devil’s Legacy: Masculinity and Power in The Devil Wears Prada
When The Devil Wears Prada came out in 2003, I learned two things about myself:
- I wouldn’t be able to live until I got a Prada handbag, and
- I wanted to be powerful
Allow me to examine that second one.
The film’s devil takes the form of Miranda Priestly (played by the ever-wonderful Meryl Streep) — the devilish editor-in-chief at a thinly veiled Vogue (or in the case of the film, Runway). Priestly weighs down heavily on the film’s protagonist — her Personal Assistant Andy (Anne Hathaway), demanding her to complete a never-ending list of demeaning and boring tasks.
I don’t think I got what the director was trying to say during my first viewing. I probably missed the messages of work versus life, ambition versus womanhood, etc. My young eyes beheld no one but Miranda Priestly.
She was in this feminine world with a masculine disposition that demanded, no, commanded respect. There was no question of her power in this fictional fashion world. In one of my favorite scenes, she sits in a designer’s studio surrounded by her magazine people, and watches a presentation of a young designer’s collection before the rest of the fashion glitterati got to see the work.
She doesn’t like it.
How does everyone know she doesn’t like it?
She purses her lips.
A small move that would go unnoticed if she was left unwatched. But she never is — she’s too important. She’s too important to have to raise her voice for attention. Her opinion is the most important in any room she’s in. The designer, watching her reaction like a hawk, notices the lip purse and moves to remove the hideous outfit from Priestly’s sight.
When the magazine leaves the studio, Stanley Tucci’s character tells Andy the importance of that lip purse: the designer’s collection is completely scrapped and he will have to start again. All because of a small bit of body language.
I never realized women could be that powerful without having to tote a gun around or scream and shout. Power could be in a raised brow or a pursed lip.
From The Devil Wears Prada, I learned that power could be a woman’s place. A woman could be a boss — not just any boss, but the boss. She had the power to make or break careers, the power to demand someone pick up her dog, make her daughters’ science project, and not expect any complaint.
From this, I yearned for power. I wanted to be Miranda Priestly. I wanted to be able to strut into a room in Manolo Blahniks, and not have to raise my voice over all the suits. I wanted to look people in the eye without any hesitation, and command whatever be done. I wanted praise and unadulterated adoration.
Unfortunately, at that time, power meant being masculine with no room for frail tears or gentle touches. The film echoed this sentiment, or at least that’s what I understood from this film — power is a masculine game.
I am one of those Geena Davis Institute of Gender in Media statistics; one of those girls who feels their self-esteem shrink and grow with the women I see on screen. In the case of Miranda Priestly, it shrunk. To make it grow, I examined what made her powerful — her masculine sensibilities.
This isn’t always necessarily a bad thing. In her book Female Masculinity, Judith Halberstam argues that the presence of masculine traits in female bodies (or female-identifying bodies) can break down the hetero-gender matrix.
In simpler terms: a woman acting as a man does is breaking down the association that men are masculine and women are feminine, which in turn dissolves the whole point of gender roles. As such, Miranda Priestly’s cold-hearted nature, ruthless ambition, and general boss attitude make her very masculine, and thus she challenges the notions of gender.
However, her masculine way of being is incredibly traditional — she carries a fog of fear around her that is usually ascribed to powerful men. Power in The Devil Wears Prada is still the realm of masculinity.
This is something I unfortunately lapped up in my desperate attempts to be stronger and more confident. I wrapped myself up in aloof thoughts, letting my anger become my underlying emotion, and letting my emotional vulnerability be placed in a nuclear bunker deep in my heart.
It’s only now, in my twenties, that I realize how negative that is and how I need to work to appreciate kindness and feminine qualities as a source of strength and power in their own right.
Which leads us back to representations on screens — would I have acted in such a manner if I saw other female characters who used their femininity to their advantage? What about female characters who balanced masculine and feminine strengths to get through their narrative?
I probably wouldn’t have. I would have seen a spectrum of women acting in diverse ways with various traits, and made up my mind as to which traits I thought I wanted to emulate consciously or otherwise.
If there was a spectrum of powerful female characters — women who led mobs, women who ran police stations, women who held the financial world in the palm of their hands — there would be more ways of being powerful for me to see, and to rob masculinity of its privileged position.
If there was a wider spectrum of female characters in general, I could see what being a strong woman could really mean, and truly make up my idea about it. Instead, my idea of a strong person is still rooted in traditional (and sometimes toxic) masculine traits.
With the introduction of Miranda Priestly into my life, I sought being feared and yearned to be in dominant positions (which weren’t always the best for me). I craved to have enough people fear me so I could trade them in for a Prada handbag.
