A fourth Bridget Jones film will begin filming this spring – but does the world really need to meet Miss Jones again?
ADVERTISEMENTIt is a truth universally acknowledged that the binge-drinking Bridget Jones and her big knicker musings are more embarrassingly awful than any novelty reindeer turtleneck ever could be.
Yet, like the bad taste of a blue string leek soup, she lingers.
It’s been announced that a fourth instalment in the film series will begin filming in May this year, with 54-year-old Renée Zellweger returning to the title role alongside Colin Firth and Hugh Grant, who play competing love interests (see also: fantasy men for the ‘gin o’clock’ slogan-loving subsection of society) Mark Darcy and Daniel Cleaver.
Based on Helen Fielding’s 1996 novel of the same name, Bridget Jones’s Diary brought the weight-obsessed 32-year-old singleton to the big screen in 2001; a supposedly relatable representation of Gen X career-focused white middle-class women.
This upcoming iteration adapts Fielding’s 2013 novel, ‘Bridget Jones: Mad About The Boy’, in which, spoiler alert, Darcy is dead (cue collective sighs of disappointment from the Firth fans).
Now in her fifties, Jones must navigate single motherhood, the brave new world of dating apps and a resulting relationship with a much younger man.
It picks up eight years after Bridget Jones’s Baby was released in cinemas, where Bridget has a fling with the chiselled Patrick Dempsey before marrying Mark Darcy after confirming she’s pregnant with his child.
«Bridget fever is expected to sweep across London this spring,» a source from the upcoming movie told The Mail On Sunday.
We hope not. Bridget fever sounds like a terrible affliction, and presumably features symptoms such as skewed perception of body image and sweat-drenched flashbacks of a bumbling boss touching your bum in a lift.
For all the Chaka Khan and vodka, there’s no female empowerment to be found in this one dimensional character that resembles more of a moany Mumsnet thread than the complex patriarchal-shadowed experiences of single womanhood.
If I sound too harsh, it’s definitely not because of any residual frustration I have over Jones affording such a spacious place in London’s Borough Market on a journalist’s wage, despite being absolutely terrible at her job too (at one point, after landing the supposed interview of the century, she asks the British aid-worker wife of a Kurdish revolutionary leader: «Did you fancy Kafir the first time that you saw him?»)
I know, I know – it’s a mainstream romcom movie from the noughts. Everyone is attractive (even if we’re repeatedly told they’re not) and money is generally no object. But also: How am I meant to sympathise with a character that’s only notable attributes are chain smoking, swearing and actively pursuing sexual harassment in the workplace as if it’s some sort of meet cute.
Time has, of course, worsened Bridge’s already wobbly appeal. Similar to Sex and the City ‘s Carrie Bradshaw, evolving societal standards and perceptions of gender identity have made these once «iconic» portrayals of women all the more unlikeable and irrelevant, degloved by diverse online collectives to reveal their antifeminist nerve and sinew.
While there’s A LOT that can be picked apart about Bridget Jones’s Diary – and that’s without even getting in to the godawful sequels – surely the biggest insult is its core suggestion that women are destined to feel like miserable «spinsters» on the brink of bunny boiling without a man in their lives. More specifically – without awful men in their lives. Far from any Austen-hued fantasies, Cleaver is the stuff of MeToo headlines while Darcy has all the charisma of a cardboard cut-out covered in damp pants. He also gives one of the biggest icks ever when he responds to Bridget’s, «Wait a minute… nice boys don’t kiss like that» with: «Oh, yes, they fucking do.»
If that’s sexy, pour my libido in a colander.
All that being said, I now must confess something: I watch Bridget Jones’s Diary every single Christmas, usually double-billed with the equally vapid and infuriating Love Actually (read my colleagues’ thoughts on that here.)
Despite recognising the stunted superficialities and downright harmful stereotypes the movie’s narrative sails on, I still *whispers it* find some of the Richard Curtisms cosy – and Jim Broadbent is so huggable.
Having first seen the film when I was very young, it also embedded itself into my cultural references, to the point that whenever I need to tend to some Bisto (which is quite often, to be honest) I’ll exclaim, «Sorry, lumpy gravy calls!»
ADVERTISEMENTAnything with Gabrielle and Geri Halliwell on the soundtrack earns extra kudos, too.
None of this is enough to make me want another Bridget Jones film, though. When will studio’s learn that nostalgia’s not enough? Especially when nothing new or interesting is being done with already worn out, wafer-thin characters.
Mark Darcy once said he liked Bridget very much: «Just as you are.» While I must disagree, I would like to leave her just as she is, with her childhood paddling pool trauma and endless similesfor arse size – surely we’ve all had quite enough of the emotional f**kwit.
