Never let it be said that I will not suffer for my art because yes, I finally gritted my teeth and sat through Bridget Jones’s Diary.
And I got exactly what I was expecting; a piss-weak sitcom full of the kind of pseudo-observational humour that was starting to look tired by the end of the 1980’s. Hugh Grant is Hugh Grant as ever and Renee Zellweger also suffers for her art by putting on two whole stone for her part for which she gamely falls over, models oversized pants and shows up to non-fancy dress parties in playboy bunny outfits. All unbelievably lacking in originality, invention and – for me at least – laughs. But obviously I am not the target audience which is clearly the collection of the self-perpetuatingly stereotypical “thirty something” women whose idea of a good time is lighting some candles and having a bath.
At least I can say I’ve done it now, so I never have to do it again.