By Stephanie Zacharek
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Alan Scherstuhl
By Charles Taylor
By Melissa Anderson
By Inkoo Kang
By Amy Nicholson
By Sam Weisberg
In Bridget Joness Diary, Renée Zellwegers breasts are as plump and white as pillows in a babys crib. The breasts, although unmistakably real (silicone does not jiggle in so eye-catching a fashion), are only an aberration. As anyone who has leafed through an entertainment or fashion magazine in the past two months already knows, they are the result of the 15-odd pounds Zellweger gained for her portrayal of the irresistible heroine of Helen Fieldings novels Bridget Joness Diary and the even more hilarious The Edge of Reason.
The endless detailing of how Zellweger bulked up on pizza, chocolate, and chardonnay (Bridgets favorite treats) and then slimmed down (through daily three-hour workouts and limiting her sugar intake to one Reeses peanut butter cup a month) has the effect of focusing our attention far too much on the bulimic aspects of the character. But Bridgets overeating, like her smoking and her lottery ticket habit, is only a symptom of the angst that is the actual subject of the novel and of the film that serves it indifferently at best. In addition, the speed with which the actress shed her Bridget-like poundage, emerging months before the movies release as an impeccably toned size two, seems like an implicit put-down of the character, who, despite constant calorie counting and diet resolutions, achieves her ideal movie-star proportions only after weeks in a Thai prison (an episode that occurs late in The Edge of Reasonand, unfortunately, falls outside the scope of the film).
A gently barbed social satire, Bridget Joness Diaryoriginated as a series of columns in the liberal London newspaper The Independent. The proximity to stories about famine in Africa and massacres in the Balkans must have made Bridgets obsessions seem not only outrageously trivial but also a kind of hysterical displacement activity (Bridgets own term) designed to keep at bay feelings of guilt over ones social apathy.
Directed by Joe Mantegna
Written by David Mamet
April 13 through 19
Once Bridget Joness Diary was published in book form in the U.S., the comparison to Ally McBeal was inevitable. But unlike Ally, who oscillates between self-loathing and self-adoration, Bridget occupies a more sympathetic middle ground, where self-doubt both engenders and undermines the desire for self-improvement. Bridget lives in a state of near paralytic embarrassment and anxiety, and Zellwegers stammering, stumbling performance finds the humor in her predicament without betraying the conflicted emotions at its core.
An update of Pride and Prejudicefor an era when marriage is no longer a stabilizing institution but still exerts a hold over the imagination of singletons, Bridget Joness Diaryweaves its episodic narrative around a romantic triangle. Bridget, a middle-class, country-raised thirtysomething, is so besotted by Mr. Wrongher Oxbridge-educated boss, Daniel Cleaver (played by Hugh Grant)that she nearly misses Mr. Right, the equally aristocratic lawyer Mark Darcy (played by Colin Firth). In one of several intertextual twists, Firths performance as Mr. Darcy in the BBC adaptation of Austens novel is one of Bridgets favorites.
Although the film preserves bits of Bridgets quirky, free-associative inner monologue, the three-act structure is too predictable, and at 90 minutes, feels both draggy and hacked to the bone. Playing Bridgets temporarily estranged parents, the brilliant comic actors Jim Broadbent and Gemma Jones are hustled on- and off-screen so rapidly they barely have time to make an impression. Fielding collaborated on the screenplay with veteran writers Richard Curtis (who wrote the glibly sentimental box-office hits Four Weddings and a Funeraland Notting Hill) and Andrew Davies (whose TV credits include the BBC production of Pride and Prejudicein which Firth starred).
Sharon Maguire, a friend of Fieldings, was the model for Bridgets tough-talking feminist pal, Shazza, but as a director, she makes bland choices. The idiom is unfailingly British (Bridget counts her weight in stones and attends a vicars and tarts party, where she circulates among her parents friends in a Playboy bunny costume), but the settings are so generic that the film could have been shot in Toronto. Theres no sense of the West London gentrification that provided the novel with its meatiest material for satire.
Still, the three leads acquit themselves with comic élan. With his languorous posture, mocking voice, and carelessly seductive glances, Grant is such a devastating cad he nearly steals the picture from Zellweger. Almost never off the screen, Zellweger has the daunting task of playing a character who personifies the films point of view without being exempt from its satire. One of the novels flaws is that Fielding vacillates about how much of a dimwit Bridget is, and Zellweger cant resolve the inconsistency between the occasional acuity of the characters perceptions and how staggeringly uninformed she is (although she works in a classy publishing house, she doesnt know that lit-crit giant F.R. Leavis has been dead for 25 years). The film, like the novel, shies away from the uncomfortable truth that both Mr. Wrong and Mr. Right are attracted to Bridget not only for her cushiony body, but because her empty-headedness makes her seem vulnerable and unthreatening. Bridget gets her man, but you should think twice about whether that constitutes a happy ending.
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