In an interview with CNN fashion writer Rachel Tashijan, the new Vogue editor-in-chief—or “head of editorial content”—Chloe Malle characterizes her sense of style as “if Katharine Hepburn was a librarian.” I liked that, even if I don’t always like her outfits. I don’t have to like her outfits to notice that, in the most recent issue of Vogue, there was what felt like a shift: maybe tonal, maybe vibration-based, but palpable. This magazine was enjoyable to read, nice to look at, and didn’t make me feel manipulated into alignment with someone absurdly wealthy. I enjoyed essays by Alice Gregory on bone density and Margaux Anbouba on corsets. I don’t like to generalize by generations, but: It seemed like something only a millennial could achieve.

Malle, of course, is what’s called “a nepo baby”: child of actress Candice Bergen and director Louis Malle. Money likely isn’t a big concern of hers, unlike it is for much of this generation. But she hasn’t, it seems, stuck herself in a bubble; she has an awareness of what those of us who were supposed to be upwardly mobile and enjoy shopping designers secondhand and read books might want out of a fashion magazine that we have a nostalgic attachment to. I hope that this awareness stretches and expands and becomes even more interesting.

This latest issue arrived to my house a day or two before we were set to go see The Devil Wears Prada 2 at the Distrito T-Mobile location of Caribbean Cinemas, a local chain that has a monopoly on the moviegoing experience of the archipelago. (If “Distrito T-Mobile” reminds you of the dystopian movie District 9, I did include this tidbit of information to signal just that.)

When we arrived at the theater, it was like the day Barbie came out all over again, except the pink was replaced with business casual attire in fire-engine red contrasted with black and a few denim corsets for good measure. I missed the memo on this and was in an oversized Canadian tuxedo of dark barrel jeans and chore coat, plus flip-flops; my hair had frizzed in the rain and so I wore a Topdrawer scarf over it, and my lips were the brown of Kulfi’s Ma’s Misra. I was more Scandinavian street style than 2006 rom-com, and I was carrying my notebook. This viewing, for me, was fun, but I knew it would also be work. 

Like the first one, this one is a few years behind what’s actually going on in the media world, economically. People are still getting laid off unceremoniously; formerly excellent weeklies that went biweekly might get sold off for parts; Jeff Bezos owns the Washington Post, and the newspaper of record is, simply put, not meeting the moment.

But this isn’t fresh; it’s the swamp we’ve been swimming in for a while now. It’s the reason I’ve been showing up in your inbox for over six years rather than making the bulk of my income writing for other publications (as I’ve maintained throughout this time, I prefer the old way, but it’s dead).

It’s a movie, though, and so I’m glad that it began with our hero Andy Sachs receiving an award for journalistic achievement right after being laid off by text. I didn’t see the first movie when it came out, because I was at the time 20 years old and too much like Ms. Sachs (and I guess I still am): believing in seriousness and the power of the written word to speak truth to power, or at least transform some ideas about what power really means. Now, instead of being forced to open a Substack, she’s brought back to Runway as features editor and starts running stories about climate change that don’t get clicks but do get the attention of a benevolent billionaire played by Lucy Liu.