This critic is no fan of BJ

10 April 2012

Having read neither the book nor the columns on which it was based, I have no way of knowing whether the film of Bridget Jones's Diary is in any way faithful to the original material. It must, therefore, stand on its own merits or fall for lack of them.

It does neither. Rather, it stumbles through a romantic plot with a predictability that can only be marvelled at, taking haphazard swipes at contemporary mores, sexual manners, the British class structure and the condition of the post-feminist career woman hovering around her early thirties.

Had it been funnier its aerated fitfulness might have been less apparent; had it been more abrasive - in the manner of a Neil Labute movie - it might have made a significant contribution to an abundantly discussed issue. What we get is fluff from start to finish.

While its observations appear accurate enough, the film fails to do anything with them. It opens at a suburban house party which hints at a benign Mike Leigh comedy; it concludes with a kiss. Both these scenes are shrouded in snow - a Richard Curtis trademark and a clear indication we have entered some kind of fantasy England.

In between, the film attempts a kind of anaemic grotesquerie - the characters are are neither wholly realistic nor sufficiently magnified. A cast of fine actors - including Jim Broadbent, Celia Imrie and Embeth Davidtz - struggle to make something of their underwritten parts. Hugh Grant extends his role as the smooth seducing shit he played in Small Time Crooks; Colin Firth is subtly virile and Renée Zellweger is effectively endearing as Bridget. But only Gemma Craven and Patrick Barlow - as an unlikely pair of adulterers - display the bravura coinfidence the film so desperately needs.

Shot in lurid, plastic colour it dares a joke about anal sex then backs off to the safety of the comfort zone where it remains. It was like being smothered to death by puppies.

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