3.5 stars. Rated R, for frequent profanity and sexual candor, and fleeting nudity
By Derrick Bang
There’s much to enjoy about Bridget Jones’s Baby, starting with the
welcome return of both Britain’s favorite “singleton,” and the irrepressible
Renée Zellweger, who continues to portray her with such ditzy panache.
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| Two very concerned guys — Mark (Colin Firth, left) and Jack (Patrick Dempsey) — a very pregnant Bridget (Renée Zellweger) about to pop, and a revolving door: a guaranteed recipe for falling-down hilarity. |
We’ve not seen Bridget on the big
screen since 2004’s Bridget Jones: The
Edge of Reason — a disappointing film based on, let’s face it, creator
Helen Fielding’s weakest novel — and we’ve not glimpsed Zellweger since her
self-imposed exile in 2010, after a string of flops in quite rapid succession.
It’s nice to visit both again,
particularly since this new film gets back to basics, with Bridget’s original
director Sharon Maguire once more calling the shots. (Maguire opted out of the
aforementioned first sequel. Wise move.)
Zellweger quickly wins our hearts
in this film’s opening scene, as a doleful Bridget celebrates her 43rd birthday
in her flat, alone, with only a cupcake, a single candle and some questionable
music for company. It’s a heartbreaking moment certain to be recognized by
anybody forced to mark a holiday or milestone event, while caught between
constant companions.
Fortunately, the melancholy tone
turns droll when Bridget defiantly clicks to another track and then pulls a Tom
Cruise — his air guitar solo, to Bob Seger’s “Old Time Rock and Roll,” at the
beginning of Risky Business — by
bopping about to House of Pain’s “Jump Around.”
It must be noted that the
cinematic Bridget now inhabits a parallel reality quite distinct from that of
her literary counterpart; this must make Fielding’s life interesting, given
that she also co-scripted this third big-screen outing, alongside Dan Mazer and
Emma Thompson. Mazer is an unexpected choice, given that his other writing
credits are mostly for Sacha Baron Cohen burlesques; his touch perhaps explains
some of Bridget’s dumber physical pratfalls here. (Falling face-first into a
mud puddle? Seriously? Isn’t that,
like, 30 years out of fashion?)
Thompson, on the other hand, is
well known for her wit and writing prowess, both of which are well suited to
Fielding’s tone and Bridget’s sensibilities. Thompson also has a significant
supporting role in this frequently arch rom-com, and — surprise — she gets all
the best lines. Wait for the corker concerning guys and pubs.
Bridget’s over-the-hill birthday
notwithstanding, the story opens on a genuinely glum note, as she attends the
funeral of her once-beloved Daniel (which justifies Hugh Grant’s otherwise
inexplicable absence). The event gathers all of Bridget’s chums — Shazzer
(Sally Phillips), Fergus (Julian Rhind-Tutt), Jude (Shirley Henderson) and Tom
(James Callis) — along with the unexpected appearance of our heroine’s other
ex: Mark Darcy (Colin Firth), accompanied by wife Camilla (Agni Scott).
Bad scene all around.
Fortunately, things look better on the job front: Bridget has risen from the
lower end of TV production to helm Hard
News, a serious news and public affairs show, where she’s much admired by
the staff, and particularly by on-air anchor and close friend Miranda (Sarah
Solemani). But even this comfortable environment isn’t destined to last;
bean-counting network bosses have just saddled the Hard News team with a snotty young executive producer, Alice Peabody
(Kate O’Flynn, appropriately condescending), who — with her team of equally
callow, social-media twits — intends to replace actual news with scandal-ridden
“exposés” straight out of The Sun and
The Mirror.
What’s a depressed girl to do?
Relive youthful hedonism, of
course — Miranda’s idea — by attending a weekend Glastonbury-style rock
festival, with the primary goal of shagging the first available guy. This
entire sequence is dumb, overly broad and ill-conceived: a sidebar as
eye-rollingly clumsy as the Thai prison interlude in The Edge of Reason. But it does serve one essential purpose,
introducing Bridget to wealthy Internet dating guru Jack Qwant (Patrick
Dempsey).
And they do indeed enjoy a
rambunctious shag, after which a sheepish Bridget stealthily sneaks away before
having to face Jack the following morning.
Mere days later, circumstances
throw her back into the arms of the suddenly unattached Mark. They, too, enjoy
a night of connubial bliss (presumably not as rambunctious, given Mark’s stiff-upper-lip
reserve). This reunion also remains a one-off, Bridget quite reasonably
figuring that their long history of blown opportunities offers little in the
way of future stability.
Back to work, then, and trying to
keep under the horrid Alice Peabody’s radar. Following which, after the
appropriate number of weeks, Bridget realizes that she’s pregnant. (Drat those out-of-date,
dolphin-friendly, biodegradable condoms!)
Yep, It’s one of comedy’s surest
bets: the question of Who’s Your Daddy?
From this point forward,
Maguire’s film is on firmer — and more genuinely funny — ground. Jack and Mark
re-enter the narrative, both eventually apprised of the situation’s, ah,
uncertainty; Thompson pops up as Bridget’s pre-natal advisor, Dr. Rawlings.
She’s a droll, understated stitch, delivering dry one-liners and arch asides
that are a sharp counterpoint to Bridget’s flamboyant fluttering and fidgeting.
Firth is equally hilarious as the
buttoned-down Darcy, who has advanced from High Court barrister to Supreme Court
Queen’s Counsel. Dealing with Bridget’s wild emotional swings always has been
difficult for the properly detached Mark, who inhabits a world of order,
establishment and conservative propriety; having to handle competition from the
smug, oh-so-perfect Jack — who, horror of horrors, is an American — is beyond the pale.
Actually, Mark has even more
trouble attempting to defend, in court, the vulgar antics of a Russian
ultra-feminist punk band (a situation clearly modeled on 2012’s Pussy Riot
controversy). Firth’s herculean struggles to remain blandly professional,
surrounded by these crude young women, are to die for.
Dempsey’s Jack is amusing in
entirely different directions: a holistic, health-conscious computer geek who
is supremely proud of having developed the ultimate “dating algorithm,” which
indicates that he and Bridget have a 97 percent chance of success as a couple.
Jack is brash, spontaneous and keen to enter Bridget’s life, having the money
to substantially elevate her always challenging economic status. No question:
Dempsey is charming.
What’s an overwhelmed girl to do?
Additional comic support comes
from Jim Broadbent and Gemma Jones, as Bridget’s devoted parents; a minor
subplot involves the latter’s run for a local political office, and the “family
values” platform that might be jeopardized by Bridget’s, um, “circumstances.”
Enzo Cilenti also is a hoot as Gianni, who runs “London’s Smallest Italian
Restaurant,” conveniently located near Bridget’s flat.
All told, Bridget Jones’ third
big-screen adventure won’t win any points for originality, but — the rock
festival sequence aside — the film is a lot of fun, with the talented cast ably
navigating the beleaguered heroine’s romantic misadventures.
I’m curious to find out, however,
how Fielding’s upcoming book — Bridget
Jones’ Baby: The Diaries, scheduled for release on Oct. 11 — will slide
into the far different continuity already detailed in her previous novel,
2013’s Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy.
Should
be interesting. And, of course, quite funny.
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