Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason
Director: Beeban Kidron. Cast: Renée Zellweger, Colin Firth, Hugh Grant, Jacinda Barrett, Sally Phillips, James Callis,
Shirley Henderson, Gemma Jones, Jim Broadbent, Celia Imrie, James Faulkner, Neil Pearson, Alex Jennings, Catherine Russell,
Paul Nicholls, Ting-Ting Hu, Vee Vimolmal, Melissa Ashworth, Pui Fan Lee, Neil Dudgeon. Screenplay: Andrew Davies, Helen
Fielding, Richard Curtis, and Adam Brooks (based on the novel by Helen Fielding).
The sequel isn't even necessary. The plot isn't even interesting. The characters aren't even respected. The audience certainly
The movie isn't even funny. The movie isn't even romantic. The movie isn't even inventive. The movie isn't even charming.
The actors don't seem to want to be there. The audience quickly doesn't want to be there. The original
director, Sharon Maguire, literally isn't there. I wish the replacement "director," Beeban Kidron, had never shown up.
Renée looks uncomfortable. Maybe because in this movie, Bridget isn't daffy, she's stupid. She isn't insecure, she's paranoid.
She isn't distracted, she's ridiculous. The filmmakers hate her. They think her body is grotesque. They think her mind is
a cotton-swab. They think her appeal is somehow immune to their desecrations. They are wrong.
Colin and Hugh look uncomfortable. Colin's charm from the first film is severely diminished. Hugh's charm from the first film
is too sparingly used. The worst scene in the first film, the fist fight between Colin and Hugh, is reprised almost exactly.
Jailed sex workers in a Thai prison look surprising comfortable. Go figure. And that's even before Bridget teaches them
Madonna lyrics and gives them free lingerie.
Bridget's friends get shafted even worse than in the first film. Shirley Henderson, as Jude, looks uncomfortable. Sally
Phillips, as Shazzer, is repugnant, brittle, terrible, schizo friend whom Bridget inexplicably listens to and forgives.
James Callis, as Tom, goes beyond gay minstrelsy. He wears little-boy pajamas and sleeps on cloud-pattern
bedsheets. He is treated like an infant. Then again, so is Bridget. Then again, so is the audience.
Cinematographer Adrian Biddle has a drug habit. Or he is a blackmail victim. Something is wrong. What is he doing working
on this project? Remember Aliens? Remember Thelma & Louise? Remember The Weight of
Water? Adrian Biddle is an able lensman. You'd never know it from this movie.
The soundtrack is chaotic. The songs are thuddingly obvious. None of them play for more than 30 seconds. They're slathered
on like errant paint smears. They jumble into each other. They illustrate nothing. They are filler. But there's nothing
to fill. A strange conundrum. Don't worry about it.
I am using simple sentences. I am doing so to make a point. I want the filmmakers to read this. I do not want there to be
any confusion. This is a horrible movie. This is v.v.v.v.bad. Do not make another film. Do not pass Go, even if this one
makes a pile of money. Do not even think about it. No one has done anything to deserve this.
Meanwhile, there is the curious issue of the title. "Edge." Has any movie ever been more lacking in edge? "Reason." Has
any movie ever been more without reason? "Bridget Jones." Is she in this movie? Does anyone recognize her? That thick,
semi-autistic dullard who can't remember to pull a parachute cord, who can't remember her last period, who can't keep out of
jail, who can't see what's in front of her face, who trusts no one she should, who trusts everyone she shouldn't, who deserves
everything that comes to her...that isn't Bridget Jones. What have they done with Bridget Jones?
Wait, don't tell me. No, please don't show me. Just let it drop. No more movies. Be kind. Step away. Leave her alone.
Leave me alone. F