Sheila and Marty always seemed, to their mutual friends, an odd pairing. Sheila, who in her youth had attended Columbia and Christ Church, Oxford, had nearly completed a doctoral thesis at the latter about Ezra Pound, ("the performance of madness in the Cantos" was how she described its subject to Marty) and she had gathered around her a circle of almost equally erudite friends. Then there was Marty. Amongst them he was always getting the references wrong and the pronunciation disastrously so. He knew nothing about Pound except for Pound's fascistic broadcasts. But he was an actual working author (of technical manuals, mostly) and he occasionally did mention that Sheila, for all her talk of writing as Pound understood it, as Art, had never published ... anything anywhere. And most places they went, Rowan (Marty's beautiful border collie, whose name had been selected by his sister for its pure Scottishness) went along . [Other stuff in here. Sheila and...
Perhaps it is a great movie I don't know. I may never know. I suspect I'm not going to see it until it ends up on small screens. But THE DEVIL WEARS PRADA II has this to its credit. It has inspired some fine writing amongst critics. I'll just quote here one example, from SALON, where senior culture writer Coleman Spilde raves about it. But “The Devil Wears Prada 2” isn’t here just to make easy money by force-feeding audiences IP slop in the form of Miranda Priestly one-liners; it’s using its existence to issue a mass-scale warning about the future, stressing the worth in fighting tooth and nail to preserve what we hold dear — in cinema, in publishing, in every element of life being disemboweled by rapacious tech bros in fleece vests. Dug.