I am a diligent Bridget Jones fan: three books and four films, to be precise. Almost a complete set. The books veer from fun to real, and are a linguistic delight. The first two films do charming justice to the books. The third, to me, feels a bit off key, and slightly unnecessary. This is perhaps because it is somewhat unmoored from the original book universe, written, as it was, after the film. But there is the bonus of Emma Thompson doing her characteristic, and enormously enjoyable, sociopath with a tiny heart of gold.
The final Bridget Jones novel is grown up and moving, but with all the usual charm and humour. And I was expecting the film based upon it, and now on release, to reflect this. What I didn’t expect was to be in full sobbing mode before we got to the opening credits.
Friendship
It is a beautiful film. It looks and sounds and feels beautiful. It deals, first and foremost, with grief. Mr Darcy is dead, and Mrs Darcy is lost. But the film also deals with something often side-lined in the cinema: friendship. It is always interesting when films foreground friendship over romantic love, Muriel’s Wedding and Il Postino being two particularly moving examples that spring to mind. Of course, there is a love interest in Mad about the Boy (in addition to ‘the Boy’), charmingly embodied by Chiwetel Ejiofor. But it is the friendship theme that ultimately binds the Bridget Jones universe, and this film, together.
Firstly, there is the comfortingly caricaturish trio who have accompanied Bridget from the start, chiding, teasing, and always loving. Then there is Daniel. One of the most touching aspects of the last book and film is the way he has become the friend it seems he was always destined to be. He has transitioned from unsuitable boyfriend material to unsuitable friend material. He combs children’s hair with a fork and teaches them how to make rudely-named cocktails. He is always outrageous, and now slightly, knowingly, sad. And he is there. And he is Hugh Grant.
Loss
The cinema had that communal feel it can sometimes have. There was a lot of laughter of course, and, I sensed, a lot of muffled tears. That particular combination inevitably evokes a funeral. And all loss is there. The loss of a spouse. The small child who has lost a parent. The tiny child as yet oblivious to the fact that they have lost a parent. The parent who leaves our adult lives. The scene with Jim Broadbent, Bridget’s father, is universal, and gently shattering. Other scenes will precisely target particular hearts with particular histories.
Awards
I get a bit annoyed that films like this receive no honours. Worthier films overshadow them. Fine comedic performances get passed over in favour of earnest, pained portrayals. But all manner of films can move an audience and stay with them long after the credits, and Mad about the Boy, for this viewer, is one of them.
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