April 29, 2001
REVIEW: Bridget Jones Is Funny by Way of Wit, Not the Toilet
By Arun Kristian Das
Screen comedies without vomit or poop jokes are rare these days, so the level of sincere silliness and wit in "Bridget Jones's Diary" is quite refreshing and welcome. I haven't laughed--really laughed--like this at the movies in a long time. This joyful and honest film about a smart, single, zaftig, thirtysomething Brit trying to find her way out of relationship purgatory pours on the hysteria through to the end.
Based on the best-selling novel by Helen Fielding, the film, directed by British documentary producer Sharon Maguire, chronicles the plight of Bridget, played by the charming Renée Zellweger (who caught attention for her role in the 1996 Tom Cruise hit "Jerry Maguire"), who finds herself indulging in vodka, cigarettes and karaoke as she despairs over her lack of a love life. Though it sounds serious, the movie thankfully makes no attempt at taking a moral tone. Rather, it presents its heroine's adventure as a kind of farce, one that anyone will identify with--for most of us have at some time compensated for emotional emptiness by going to one too many parties. Zellweger, a Texan, is sure to surprise skeptics with the way she effortlessly slips into the role of the brash Londoner.
Approaching her 32d birthday, Bridget decides that since her fate lies squarely in her hands, she resolves to keep a daily diary of her tobacco-and-alcohol consumption, weight fluctuations and strategies to attract a suitable mate. With her newfound confidence, she dons sexy see-though garb and catches the eye of her boss, Daniel Cleaver, who represents all things wrong for Bridget emotionally, but, oh my, all things right for her neglected libido. They exchange witty, sexually charged office e-mails ("You forgot your skirt today, Jones") and fall into a "shagging" office romance. And while Cleaver is played with aplomb by box-office draw Hugh Grant, we suspect that he isn't "the one," and that it won't last.
Here comes Mark Darcy, who conveniently keeps popping up in Bridget's life at parties, gatherings and a weekend getaway. We (and Bridget) met Darcy early on in the film but his rude dismissal of Bridget as a "spinster" at a New Year's Day party threw up the red flag. Soon his presence grows as he pensively watches Bridget waste her time with Cleaver, and we realize that maybe he's not as creepy as we thought.
The one shortcoming of this movie is that Colin Firth plays Darcy a little too cold. Perhaps the coldness may be in character--he's a barrister whose marriage recently ended and he now finds himself in a pointless relationship of convenience--but even when he emerges as a potential love interest for Bridget, he doesn't break out of his shell. Firth doesn't make the audience really root for him to capture Bridget's heart.
It doesn't matter much in the end. Zellweger's lovable goofiness, not Firth's mystery or even the love story, is what carries the story. We can't help but cheer for her, trusting her to make the right choices--perhaps after making a few wrong (but funny) ones first.
Bridget Jones's Diary. Directed by Sharon Maguire; screenplay by Richard Curtis, Andrew Davies and Helen Fielding, based on the book by Fielding; starring Renée Zellweger, Colin Firth and Hugh Grant. Miramax, 2001. Rated R.