Just thirty years ago, people would have had enough of a sense of the English language to name this The Diary of Bridget Jones, or Bridget’s Diary, or The Bridget Jones Massacre – ANYTHING but this awkward title that sends even veteran teachers at the Caldonian school reaching for their style books to check the rule on the possessive double “s”.
But whatever; the subject at hand, Bridget Jones’s Diary (check out the Collector’s Edition)! In which another best-selling young adult novel out of the UK (think High Fidelity) is pounced on by the cunning, greedy Left Coast Yanks and a leading role is stolen for an American actress with Gweneth Paltrow’s former dialogue coach.
Renee Zellweger plays a 30ish woman worried about finding a good man and spends a lot of time crying on the supportive shoulders of a generally strong supportive cast. Then she meets Hugh “I like it when black prostitutes suck me off in my BMW on Hollywood Boulevard in broad daylight” Grant, whose inadequacies and insecurities provide the foibles and “tension” of this relatively intelligent (stress on “relatively”) romantic comedy.
Most British critics have said that the film lacks the mordant wit and social criticism that made Helen Fielding’s book such a sensation in the UK, and it is all but certain that they are right.
Thinky says: Q: Why was Bunker Hill all slimy? A: The British are coming! The British are coming!