Bridget Jones's Diary
The people who made this film are absolute morons. Unbelievable morons. They make a movie about a woman with very little self-confidence, then fill their stupid movie with a narrative soundtrack to ensure that the audience doesn't miss a single conspicuous emotion. In other words, they have so little confidence in the material that they explicitly instruct the audience on how to feel at every particular moment -- like a teacher leading a daisy chain of kindergarteners to the cafeteria.
Either this film is a remake of "Someone Like You", or "Someone Like You" stole its entire plot from Helen Fielding's book. Let's see; in "Someone like You," a woman with a history of romantic dysfunction starts dating her boss, only to discover that a guy she thought was a jerk really isn't. In "Bridget Jones's Diary," Bridget (Renée Zellweger), still single at 32, starts dating her boss, Daniel Cleaver (Hugh Grant). Shockingly, she discovers that he's a total ass and the guy she thought was an ass, Mark Darcy (Colin Firth), really isn't! When she finally realizes this with an audible "pop" (indicating the full force of microcephalic epiphany) what song do the filmmakers play? You guessed it: "Someone Like You." Either that, or the films are so similar they've melded together in my mind.
Am I giving the ending away? Well, what kind of idiot are you if you can't figure out that Mark Darcy isn't the bad guy? I mean, he stands there staring into the void of his painful existence, looking as though his girlfriend (Embeth Davidtz) just took his testicles, stuffed them in a little baggie and dribbled the down the sidewalk. You know he's going to undergo a metamorphosis whereby he admits his feelings for the frump goddess Bridget.
What is it about men that Bridget doesn't understand anyway? Frankly, I don't know very many men like Hugh Grant: guys who have total control over their relationships with women. All Bridget has to do is put out a little, and she'll have the power to lead any man she wants to whatever end she desires. That's the way life works. Men are dogs, and the leash that controls them is sex. Unless, of course, you're just a brutally disgusting hag. Then you're really fucked.
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