Expanded internet access and the ubiquity of smartphones have turned us into a society of glancers and scrollers; the potential to get ahead on messages or promote our work or enrich our knowledge buzzes frantically from our pockets at all hours. With such effortless access to so dazzling a breadth of resources, the compulsion to partake is consuming. Not picking up the phone means squandering an opportunity for self-improvement.

In 2026, this element of spontaneity and unmediated experience feels almost unfathomable. Instead of living through something, we’ve shifted into a society that constantly comments on what it means to live. Social media feeds are saturated with articles and think-pieces about how ‘phones are ruining our lives’ and how ‘being offline is the new cool’. The internet has a problem with constantly seeking the validation of everyone whilst simultaneously wanting to detach itself entirely. 

That world no longer exists in the same way, and The Devil Wears Prada 2 is clearly aware of this. The film gestures repeatedly toward the instability of modern journalism through references to mass firings, evolving media, and the declining readership of publications like Runway. Yet these acknowledgments remain a bit weightless. The sequel never fully dramatizes the emotional, cultural, or economic devastation of this collapse. Instead, it repeatedly retreats into the familiar rhythms of workplace rivalry and backstabbing.

Over the last decade, inequality in America has transformed from an abstract policy issue into a daily sensory experience. Wealth is no longer hidden behind gates, country clubs, or quarterly earnings reports. It arrives algorithmically, flooding phones for hours a day: private jets, “what I eat in a day” videos filmed inside $20 million kitchens, celebrities discussing the trauma of fame from homes larger than hotels, executives describing layoffs as unfortunate but necessary market corrections while workers launch GoFundMes for insulin or funeral expenses.

The show is gilded in the hallmarks of a murder mystery; it begins with a dead body in an abandoned pool house and then flashes back in time as the police in the present try to piece together alibis and motives. Under that Agatha Christy like coating, though, is a tender, earnest exploration into male friendships that ends in utter heartbreak. It’s not actually a murder mystery. It’s a love story.

Basically, until there’s a mass recognition of the failed US wage market, there is no chance for reform. Until the hustle culture of American business is recognized for its abuses rather than its procurement of some mythical American Dream, wages will continue to stagnate as prices continue to rise…Last Place Aversion is experienced by those who have, or feel they have, no control over the system that's trapped them. And until a political movement shows promise for a full economic restructure, the American working class will continue as the ball in this economic tennis match.