Bridget Jones’s Diary

By Mark Ramsey | 2001/04/15

It was by sheer coincidence that I happened to be passing by the Chinese embassy just in time to intercept a secret memorandum from Universal Pictures, of all things. It read in part:

Although the full picture of what transpired is still unclear, we are very sorry for foisting Josie & The Pussycats on an unwary public. We didn’t make Josie & The Pussycats back when they were called The Bangles and we are very sorry we did now. Finally, we are very sorry for Tara Reid, who’s never seen a pair of pants that didn’t hug her hips like they were the last hips on Earth. When belt loops make like rock climbers and hang on for dear life, you see, it makes us very sorry.


From the folks who brought you Notting Hill and the gal who wrote the original bestseller Bridget Jones’s Diary comes the movie of the same name. Okay, I haven’t read the book and I hear it’s very good, but based only what I see here the fuss is a mystery, indeed.

Bridget Jones is that famous Brit “singleton” who smokes like a chimneyton and drinks like a fishleton. How is it that American export Renée Zellwegger as Bridget is the hottest babe in England? Judging from this movie, most of Bridg’s countrywomen spend too much time drinking tea and not enough time diffusing it therapeutically all over their faces. Stay in the salons, ladies, and out of the fields faking crop circles!

Fop-haired Hugh Grant co-stars as Bridget’s fop-haired cad-slash-lothario boss. And it seems he’s even less familiar with rules against sexual harassment than he is with the comb and brush.

In the US, when you greet your secretary with “You’re looking very sexy, Jones” what you really mean is “You’re looking at a very sexy and substantial settlement and a life of leisure from here on out, Jones.”

Worse, an over-indulgent sojourn from the barber means Hugh’s hair has gone Medusa! Oy, Hugh’s curls twist and tangle like serpents in search of a type-casting escape clause. Has he not cut those brownilocks since Liz Hurley dumped him on them?

In the midst of a grabby-gus grope, Hugh discovers Bridget wears panties big enough to stretch into a trampoline across the English Channel. Now those bad-ass French arseholes can not only swim, tunnel, and fly to Britain, they can hop too! These knickers cross the line between a pair of panties and a parachute! In a fit of comic desperation, Hugh hoists the panties up a flagpole, unexpectedly launching a nuclear winter which says “bugger off” to the sun for days and envelops London in a shroud of foggy greenhouse gas.


Besides Hugh, Bridget’s also sweet on Colin Firth. He’s a Barrister (which at least contains the root word “bar”) who exudes zero warmth and mostly stares deeply and desperately. What’s not to lust after? I guess.

/2001/images/bridgetjones_cosmetics.jpgFor a chick with no love life Bridget goes through two guys in 90 minutes – In the States, she’d have to stand at a special intersection for that kind of volume – or at least tour the production offices at Warner Bros.

What a place this Britain is! In the US, we have the “Pimp and Ho” party. There, it’s called “Tarts and Vicars,” and evidently it’s funny to mix guys in religious garb with gals who dress like it’s 1968 and they’re serving cocktails to Mr. Bond at the Playboy club. Oh James!

Where’s all the gross-out humor we American audiences have come to expect from our comedies? The grossest thing here was Bridget scraping the mold off cheese, and Regis has been doing that for years.

After being dumped by Hugh, Bridget wins a gig with a splashy British TV show called “Sit up, Britain.” Not surprisingly, it immediately trounces BBC’s “No Running with Scissors, Britain” which in turn replaced the late, great “Eat Your Vegetables, Britain.” Bollocks, Telly!

Hey, look, it’s a cameo by that Rushdie guy who wrote The Satanic Verses! He’s the one with the Iranian price on his head. Nice way to hide, Salman! If you’re gonna thumb your nose at angry Islamic assassins, at least you can now do it on a nice big screen!

You can close your eyes and still see where this flick’s going thanks to the clockwork soundtrack cues. When Bridget has an intimate real-love moment, cue Van Morrison. When Bridget chases after a man, cue Diana Ross: “Ain’t No Panties Broad Enough to Keep Me From You!”

Bridget Jones’s Diaries isn’t bad, but those hefty knickers have “rent me” written all over them.

Photos Copyright ©2001 Miramax Films


Comments are closed.

Enter your own funny caption

caption this

“This is where we would kiss if I was attracted to girls”