Anyone who has been to the cinema at all in the last couple of years will have found themselves asking the question: “Why does everything look like that?” This feeling is especially palpable when you’re watching the exact same scene from 20 years ago, desaturated. The Devil Wears Prada 2 opens with Andy (Anne Hathaway) brushing her teeth in the mirror, a perfectly unsubtle reflection of the first seconds of the original film. The only marked difference is the colour grading and the quiet hum of Andy’s electric toothbrush, signalling the decades that have passed, given that Hathaway’s poreless face certainly tries to deny it. 

The original Devil Wears Prada was a film that took a major Hollywood gamble. Being an adaptation of the roman à clef of the same name, the production team were backed into a corner in terms of how to finance and market the film, given the sharp and overt satire of the woman who owned the entire fashion industry. Anna Wintour was still, by and large, the most powerful person in fashion when director David Frankel was fighting to create an accurate representation of the fashion industry in his film. Patricia Field, the costume designer, sourced approximately $1 million worth of clothing on a $100,000 budget through her personal connections outside of the so-called ‘Wintour ecosystem’. Intuitive filming locations like the Met, MoMA, and Bryant Park all had board members associated with Wintour and thus could not be used as sets. The film implicitly argues that this is a story worth telling, even if the industry it claims to be intimate with is intent on boycotting it. For an almost tiringly self-aware sequel – yes, we know that a million girls would kill for this job, and an early scene warps the Meryl Streep cinematic universe by featuring an Instagram post that uses a screencap of Miranda from the original film – The Devil Wears Prada 2 doesn’t seem to recall the conditions of production in 2006 at all. 

From its earliest scenes through to the very end, The Devil Wears Prada 2 is functionally an unskippable ad. The sponsorships that the film took are displayed in a very obvious and sometimes tacky manner  – though I could see it coming from a million miles away, the shameless Starbucks promo made me wince and sink into my seat a little further. Whilst the coffee cups can be ignored to some degree, the brand partnerships are unfortunately also integral to the plot. 

We find out early on that Emily (Emily Blunt) now works in the advertising department of Dior. Andy, Miranda, and Nigel (Stanley Tucci) must appease her after it is revealed that a puff piece published by Runway praises a brand that uses sweatshop labour. Emily leverages this against the Runway executives in order to secure a five-page layout for the new Dior flagship, which Andy is assigned to write. In her interview with Andy, Emily speaks glowingly of how designer brands have essentially made themselves inaccessible for the average, middle-class consumer. According to Emily, the shoes you wear, the bag you carry, they speak to who you are and what you care about. Andy scoffs at this because she knows what the audience knows, too: your Dior purse only tells the world that you have too much money and not a clue what to do with it. The frustrating part is that she is functionally not at liberty to say anything else. The iron-clad partnership with Dior means that Andy, a character who we know to value principles over fancy dress, must change her tune. Patricia Field securing a Chanel wardrobe for the cast out of thin air is essentially what Nigel does for Andy in the first film – an important part about her transformation is that she has not actually risen in status, she has just made good friends in high places. In the second film, her new position as features editor at Runway earns Andy enough money to buy a luxury flat in central Manhattan. Maybe scoffing shows the true extent of her desire to retaliate. 

Though a big budget was undoubtedly necessary to secure the returning cast who are now all firmly on the A-list, I can’t help but partially blame the – pardon my French – late-stage capitalist slop on my screen on the rise of streaming services. This story, like all other scripts of the 2020s, has died a sad death; its eulogy will simply be the tudum sound. This is apparent even in the beigeness of the opening scene and Hathaway’s blemish-free face. Netflix has operated under a tiered subscription system for the last decade, wherein you can pay the difference to unlock ‘Ultra HD’ streaming. You can also, of course, pay to stream without ads. The luxury brand scheme that Emily describes is the same financial model that has taken hold of the film industry, causing the decline of cinema attendance and poisoning blockbuster-scale productions. Those who truly want it, the ever-growing roster of streaming services tells us, will pay for it. The rest of us must suffer.

It’s not all bad, though. I am definitely not high and mighty enough to claim myself indifferent to nostalgia bait, especially when it objectively makes a pretty good attempt at regenerating the buzz of its predecessor. Upon rewatching the first film with my friends to refresh our memories, one of them exclaimed: “There’s just so many scenes to queen out to!” This is what the sequel gets right – the focus is still largely on girls and gays, their fun, campy outfits, and of course, a musical number performed by Lady Gaga. Despite its glowering flaws, the film still makes for two hours spent smiling and bopping your head along to the soundtrack. 

However, the funniest part about the whole film is how it postures as self-conscious in a comically “maybe the real Prada was the devils we met along the way” manner, and still manages to be completely dense in other aspects. The 2003 novel The Devil Wears Prada was written by Lauren Weisberger after she spent a period working as Anna Wintour’s personal assistant. Andy is literally given the option to take a $350,000 book deal to write what would have probably been a “gooey” (as Emily accurately characterises her) depiction of the Prada-clad HR disaster that she works for, by Miranda herself, and she still turns it down. “This could hurt Miranda,” she whispers in a trembling voice when she refuses her publisher friend Talia’s (Rachel Bloom) offer for the book, to which Talia rightly responds, “Which is fine, because Miranda is atrocious!” To Andy, it’s more complicated than that, and maybe this is an acceptably humanist approach, but one thing is certain. In the world of The Devil Wears Prada 2, there is one thing that could have never existed: The Devil Wears Prada.

The north-south divide is alive and well at Oxford’s railway station at the end of term. While students heading south crowd the opposite platform, those of us heading north have enough room on the other side of the tracks for a quick kick-about.

The University of Oxford suffers from a severe lack of representation of Northern students, with almost 50% of UK-domiciled undergraduate students coming from London and the South East, while students from the North-West, North-East, and Yorkshire and the Humber made up just 7.6%, 2.5%, and 5% of admissions, respectively, from 2022-2024. There appears to be an inbuilt bias, however unconscious, against the North, the implications of which can be felt in a plethora of ways. 

Accent prejudice in Oxford, for instance, has been well-documented in recent articles from Cherwell and other student newspapers. Bias can start even before the first day – a friend of mine was asked if all the mines were closed yet in the North-East during our offer-holder day. Not exactly a great first impression. These attitudes reflect an ingrained social prejudice that just won’t come unstuck. Nor are they confined to the University. When doing my research for this article, it didn’t take long before I was hit with blatant assumptions about people from the North in the byline of a 2021 Daily Telegraph article, synonymising “bright young things from the North” with “students from poorer backgrounds”.

So you can imagine the pleasant surprise that I felt when the recent careers emails were sent round proudly advertising the “over 50 exciting summer opportunities available across the UK” that were about to drop. A quick browse on Career Connect, though, brought me back down to the (southern) earth, as the claims of placements “across the UK” didn’t come into fruition.

Of the 60-odd opportunities advertised in the first round of domestic summer internships, only one was an in-person placement in the North (an opportunity in Newcastle seems to have slipped through the net – otherwise, the map seems to have been erased north of Watford).

We’re undeniably very lucky at the University of Oxford to have so many internships organised and shared by the careers service. It is heartening to see that many of the placements available are remote, widening opportunities and improving accessibility. It’s also good to see that three regional alumni groups (The Oxford University Society of Cornwall, East Kent, and East Sussex – all, unfortunately, in the south) are offering bursaries to support students from these areas to access internships, while there are also routes within colleges and the broader University to apply for financial support and travel grants. But the implication that I would have to commute to the south in order to conduct a worthwhile in-person internship seems to ignore the many interesting and insightful organisations doing important and varied work in the North. 

While an online placement is certainly better than nothing, the idea that just because I’m from the North, I can’t access the same in-person insights into a workplace as my Southern counterparts seems pretty unfair. Because even if commuting into London, or forking out for a place to stay, was an option (it certainly isn’t for me), at the end of the day, it is the careers office that is missing a trick here. Through failing to advertise placements in many of the hundreds of fantastic organisations that are doing wonderful things in the North, it is the University’s students who are missing out.

Given that Oxford is a southern university, it is both reasonable and to be expected that the domestic internships are therefore weighted towards the South. It would be fantastic, though, if there were even proportional representation, offering a similar percentage of placements in the North as there are northern students. 

In recent years, the University and individual colleges have been making a concerted and commendable effort to improve Northern representation in the student body, with programmes such as Oxford for North East, Oxford for North West, and Oxford for Yorkshire and the Humber offering “workshops, application support, mentoring, and residential visits” in order to boost intake. Through making connections with organisations based in the North, for instance, through linking up with the Northern Powerhouse Partnership, the University could go one step further, cementing relationships with the regions and, in doing so, taking a more holistic approach to boosting northern admissions. Offering internships in the North would demonstrate long-term support for northern students that goes beyond the application process, ensuring equal provision once students are in the door.

For now, though, I had best get back to my search for a placement in those seemingly little-known, off-the-map backwaters like Manchester, Liverpool, and Leeds. 

I never felt more at home than when I was living thousands of miles away from home. It is indeed a paradox that many Chinese people living abroad know too well. Distance does not dilute identity – it sharpens it. What once felt ordinary at home suddenly becomes important, deliberate, and worth defending when you surround yourself with a different culture, language, and rhythm of life. 

It started with something as simple as food. Back home in Hong Kong, I took good Chinese food (to be precise, “yum cha”) for granted. Pu-erh tea was just what we were used to. Sauces were just sauces. But abroad, I began to hunt for authentic flavours with an almost religious fervour. I developed a true appreciation for well-aged Pu-erh – the deep, earthy taste that reveals itself gradually, layer by layer. The first boil, of course, is just a gentle rinse to awaken the tea leaves. I, too, craved the exact balance of spiciness found in specific Hong Kong-style sauces, like the difference between “spicy oil and spicy sauce”. The way of eating “Siu Mai” has to be balanced with sesame oil, the specific chilli oil and the right amount of soya sauce. I wasn’t just eating – I was preserving a piece of home.

Even the tableware started to matter. I became genuinely disappointed when a waiter handed me a fork and knife instead of chopsticks and a spoon. It wasn’t snobbery – it was the small daily reminder that the most natural way I interact with food was being replaced by something foreign and inappropriate. I also found myself paying attention to the blue and white porcelain plates and bowls in Chinese restaurants – quietly assessing whether they were cheap modern replicas or carried the elegant simplicity of Yuan or Ming dynasty aesthetics.

Food became my daily act of cultural resistance and reconnection.

The same shift happened with language and communication. At home, we used Chinese proverbs casually, without much thought. Abroad, I started researching their origins and backstories so I could explain them properly to my international friends. I wanted them to understand not just the words, but the centuries of wisdom and humour packed inside. At times, my Chinese friends and I would banter in Cantonese, playfully roasting Chinese stereotypes in that affectionate, insider way that we could. These gatherings felt like warm, familiar bubbles in an otherwise chilly, misunderstood setting.

Living abroad made me acutely aware of how much I missed the cultural shorthand – the jokes, the references, the unspoken understandings that don’t need explanation among fellow Chinese. We sought each other out not out of exclusion, but out of a deep need for that “safe haven” where we could relax, be ourselves, and speak freely without translating our souls, as though we want a hot meal for lunch, not a Tesco meal deal.

Even something as simple as colour took on new meaning. Back home, wearing red during the Lunar New Year was mostly about tradition. Abroad, it became an act of joyful compliance. I started wearing red more often – not just during Spring Festival, but whenever I felt the need to inject some vibrancy and cultural warmth into grey, British winters, a good way to remind myself, and perhaps others, that we ought to look beyond and celebrate colour, luck, and renewal.

But it wasn’t merely about preserving tradition. Living abroad also made me appreciate my home city in a way I never had when I was immersed in it.

I am writing this piece after landing at Heathrow Airport, waiting at Paddington Station for a train that has already been delayed by 20 minutes. The contrast is almost comical. In Hong Kong, I had grown used to the seamless efficiency of the metro and rail networks, good public services, and perhaps, the general sense that things simply “work”. The punctuality, the convenience, the speed – I didn’t fully value them until I stood on a cold platform watching yet another departure board flicker with delays.

From afar, China’s rapid development no longer feels like background noise. It becomes something that any country can be proud of. The high-speed trains, the digital infrastructure, the sheer ambition and execution – these things look even more impressive when you experience the frustrations of less efficient systems elsewhere.

While writing this piece might risk me being told to either “go back to my country” or questioned about my motivations to be in Oxford pursuing my studies, I would urge those people to reconsider. It is indeed a great privilege and opportunity to go abroad, but this feeling is the unexpected underbelly that comes with just that. It forces you to see your own culture with fresh eyes – both its deep historical roots and its modern dynamism. You stop taking things for granted. The small rituals (the right tea, the right sauce, the right chopsticks) become acts of identity. The proverbs and banter become bridges rather than assumptions. The frustrations abroad become quiet reminders of how proud one ought to be about human progress and connections.

I became more Chinese while abroad because distance stripped away the complacency that familiarity breeds. It turned passive belonging into active appreciation. What used to be “normal” became “mine” – something worth comprehending more deeply, preserving more consciously, and promulgating more proudly.

And perhaps that is the hidden strength of living abroad. We don’t just carry our culture with us. In many ways, we rediscover it, refine it, and sometimes even love it more fiercely than we ever did at home.