I don't usually like to watch film adaptations of books until I've read the work in question, but this time, I'm glad I made an exception. Bridget Jones's Diary is a v. (Bridget shorthand for "very") sweet little movie that got way too much attention for how much weight Renée Zellweger gained and too little for the great perfomances its actors give. I know I've accused her of having chipmunk cheeks before, but really, Zellweger looks great in this movie--I'd kill for cleavage like the kind she sports in the infamous Playboy bunny/Tart and Vicar party scene.
Moving past aesthetic issues and breast envy, I found myself becoming highly involved in the storyline. Bridget Jones, who works at a London publishing house, is a "singleton" and a terminal klutz. I know what you're thinking: this is just another instance of a film trying to pass off a pretty actress as a comedienne, just because she can handle a few pratfalls and emerge with a self-deprecating smile (see: Julia Roberts in My Best Friend's Wedding). But Zellweger actually delivers the goods here, shuttling with ease between vulnerability (it doesn't get much worse than drunken lip-synching to "All By Myself") and self-assertiveness (a line regarding the hygiene care of Saddam Hussein is delivered beautifully). Bridget's conflict has not only to do with love, but with personal ethics: should she settle for what seems most easy, an affair with her sweet-yet-smarmy boss, Daniel Cleaver (Hugh Grant), or should she pursue the road less travelled and strike up a relationship with the man her mother keeps pushing on her, Mark Darcy (Colin Firth), even though she can't stop from making a fool of herself everytime she's near him?
Though the answer seems simple, the film keeps us guessing along the way. We know Grant's character will turn out to be cheating on Bridget, but we want so much for her to be happy that we think that he may overcome our expectations. Mr. Darcy (a name familiar to all you Austen fans) is elusive yet there seems to exist a magnetism between Bridget and him--and their chance encounters never seem heavy-handed or indicative of some cosmic alignment (are your ears burning yet, Serendipity?). Whenever Daniel pops up, urging Bridget to give him one more chance, Zellweger makes her inner struggle painfully clear. And who would have known Hugh "Stammer and Blink as Shorthand for Charming" Grant could play a cad so wonderfully? (Well, perhaps Liz Hurley.)
There are certain things that women know are bad for them-- eating everything in the house, chain-smoking, excessive drinking, getting involved with slimeballs, obsessing over their weight--but they do them anyway. This film celebrates this fact, and doesn't make any apologies to those who may accuse it of being anti-feminist. And for once, I'm not one of them. Bridget eventually comes to realize to understand the importance of those immortal words, "To thine own self be true." I picked up a motto of my own, courtesy of Bridget: "I choose Vodka. And Chaka Khan." Words to live by.
-reviewed by the ladybug, May 1, 2002
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