Six weeks after the end of the first film, which united Bridget and upper-crust human-rights lawyer Mark Darcy (Colin Firth), the intrepid Bridget is skydiving bottom-first into a pigpen in the name of television journalism. She's degenerated into a clingy, obsessive, lumpen caricature of her former sparkling self, so witless and galling that Lucy Ricardo seems a steady, self-confident font of common sense by comparison. Sadly, in both Fielding's sequel and Beeban Kidron's fat-joke-filled follow-up to BRIDGET JONES'S DIARY (2001), all Bridget's (Renee Zellweger) problems are her own fault. A neurotic charmer who eats, smokes and drinks to excess, dates dreadful men, sabotages her own ambitions and then castigates herself in her diary, Bridget struck a chord with a generation of self-loathing women convinced by self-help gurus that all their problems — from fat knees to workplace inequality — are the product of their own inadequacies.
The genius of novelist Helen Fielding's shallow, silly and compulsively readable Bridget Jones's Diary was Bridget herself.
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