It’s scary out on the edge of reason. I know this because part two of the suddenly-sucky “Bridget Jones” series drove me there, where I struggled for quite some time to think of a single logical, rational or intelligent excuse for the existence of this galling sequel. Eventually, it dawned on me: There’s plenty of box office milk left in this cow. Speaking on behalf of men everywhere, I admit that the first film was, um, wonderful (there, I said it). But this one, well, this one does its predecessor a disservice and feels a lot like premeditated cock-up, filled with uneven sitcommish set pieces, credulity-stretching conveniences and humor that is as flat as our buxom, chain-smoking heroine isn’t. And speaking of the ciggies, for the most part, they’re gone. So too, are a great deal of the more colorful four-letter words the old Bridget (Renee Zellweger, then and now) bandied about with delightful abandon. The new model Jones is still paunchy, yet considerably less indecorous than before — an unfortunate metamorphosis, to be sure.
She no longer longs to shag bad boys like Daniel Cleaver (Hugh Grant), who’s back again delivering the film’s few genuinely clever gags. Daniel’s left the publishing world to become a TV personality on the very same network where Bridget works — go figure — only he isn’t around all that much, and Bridget’s too consumed with stiff boyfriend Mark Darcy (Colin Firth) to care anyway. The plot revolves around Bridget’s insecurities about her relationship with Mark. After six whole weeks of dating, he’s yet to pop the question, AND he’s been spending an awful lot of time with a comely young colleague (Jacinda Barrett). Being not-so-understandably out of sorts over all this, the accident-prone Bridget gets herself into one mess after another: At a black-tie dinner, on the slopes of the Alps, and — the film’s nadir — in a Thai prison, where she teaches her English-challenged cell mates how to sing and dance like Madonna. It’d been better had she instructed them on the Three S’s — swearing, smoking and shagging. But then, there simply isn’t anything better than the original to be found this time around.
Originally published in the Santa Monica Daily Press print edition on November 12, 2004. Read the original PDF.