Light, London-based bits of romantic comedies were all the rage at the time of Bridget Jones’s Diary’s release. They still are to some extent. Last Christmas still lingers in the mind like the sickening abscess of mundanity it was. With Renée Zellweger leading the charge through a rewarding nostalgia binge, it is hard not to like the charms of Bridget Jones’s Diary, a quintessentially light and British film. It has that status about it, the likes of Hot Fuzz and Notting Hill have procured. Hugh Grant being in two out of three is no coincidence, though. Bridget Jones’s Diary benefits from Grant, Zellweger and Colin Firth, a triple bill that gets better and better as time goes by.
Inherent to that quality are the smaller flourishes that have been extrapolated, admitted to and pushed onto Bridget Jones’s Diary. It is a film broad and fun enough to take on whatever meaning is needed at the time. A break-up feature, a warm way to start the New Year, an interesting depiction of careerism in the face of romance. Each and every articulation that wants to be featured by someone watching can be found when staring at it hard enough. Bridget Jones’s Diary is at its core a quality comedy feature that has been stolen under the cover of darkness by people who enjoy Gavin and Stacey. That just will not do. There is prestige to Zellweger’s leading performance and those that give her the support necessary for such an incredibly unique adaptation of Pride and Prejudice.
For Zellweger and her Academy Award nomination, Bridget Jones’s Diary is an understanding of avoiding bad relationships and staying the course even in the face of needy friends, awful colleagues and terrible decisions made by others that have a knock-on effect. Shirley Henderson and Sally Hawkins are incredible supporting characters, and while they provide some excellent cover for Jones’s lack of plot unravelling. Meet-ups with pals in smoke-filled restaurants are a better way than most to unravel details like that, as is the strange and fascinating cameo of Salman Rushdie. The build-up between Firth and Zellweger is not as believable as first intended, although it is the inevitable icing that comes with the flashy villainy showcased by Grant.
Deception is a far stronger motive than most in Bridget Jones’s Diary. Although it is not the intention, Bridget Jones’s Diary is a greasy food movie. Big, massive pizza, a bigger glass of rosé. Another glass of rosé. Another. Light and breezy. Innuendo-clad and more obvious than most in that regard, Bridget Jones’s Diary is like a well-stocked Carry-On film. Family throes and troubles, relationship woes and careerist opportunities that look to sacrifice them all. Everything is horrible, but because everyone here is accustomed to British sensibilities, there’ll be no talk of it. Bridget Jones’s Diary is utterly terrifying. Filled with the fear that comes from a freewheeling single lifestyle, pumped full of doubt at the marital status of the long-term form. What a car crash. A few more glasses of wine and it all makes a bit more sense. Easier to swallow with White Zinfandel.
