Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy review – pleasant but forgettable

When Bridget Jones first appeared on cinema screens in 2001, she was 32 years old, caught in a love triangle for the ages, and continually concerned about her weight (in the years since it has been routinely pointed out that 9.5 stone is a perfectly healthy weight). In her previous three film outings, Bridget has contended with drug smuggling charges in Thailand, a paternity debacle and – perhaps most humiliating of all – showing her (clothed) bottom on national television. She is the archetypal frazzled British heroine, a Blairite Elizabeth Bennet, and in her latest adventure, she is mid-50s, a mother to two rambunctious children, and a widower of four years.

Life looks very different from when she lived in her little Borough flat and most of her crises revolved around blue soup and big knickers. Although the family have upgraded to a spacious town house in North London, Mark Darcy’s (Colin Firth) tragic death while on a humanitarian trip in Sudan has left Bridget understandably unmoored, even as she must do the school run in her pajamas (classic Bridget!) and fend off enquiries from her mates about when she’ll start dating again. (Classic Bridget!)

At the behest of her nosy friends, she downloads a dating app, but it’s a meet-cute with a handsome park ranger (Leo Woodall) on Hampstead Heath – he rescues her after she gets stuck in a tree (Classic Bridget!) – that sets things in motion. Bridget is somehow able to look past the fact the younger man goes by the name ‘Roxster’ and begins a steamy romance with him. In this sense, Mad About the Boy follows the recent spate of films flipping the script on the tired ‘Older man, younger woman’ which is rarely questioned in Hollywood (see also: The Idea of You, Babygirl, Lonely Planet and The Perfect Getaway) though all of these films are somewhat fixated on the age gap and seem to ignore that when a man is seen with a much younger woman, it’s been seen as unremarkable for decades. Mad About the Boy doesn’t have much faith in the longevity of an age-gap relationship anyway; that’s what the much more age-appropriate Mr. Wallaker (Chiwetel Ejiofor) is for.

Bridget, otherwise, is much the same as she ever was: extremely good at her job as a television producer, worried about her appearance despite being conventionally attractive, and surrounded by a group of loyal mates. Yet the film does give Bridget the pain of grief to contend with, not just for her husband, but for her father who has also passed away (perhaps the film’s most moving moment is Jim Broadbent’s brief cameo). Zellweger is plenty charming, as is Hugh Grant as perpetual rogue Daniel Cleaver, who has softened slightly in his old age, and although the pair only share a few scenes, their reunion feels like the most well-executed piece of fan service. Other references to the story so far feel a little more embarrassing, such as a flagrant homage to Colin Firth’s lake scene from Pride and Prejudice, and while Ejiofor is a delightful addition to the cast, Woodall’s chemistry with Zellweger leaves a lot to be desired.

But the bite that made the first Bridget Jones’ Diary such a delight isn’t really here. Perhaps that’s a sign of the maturing protagonist, but it doesn’t leave much us to get excited about. Except perhaps the aspirational interiors of Bridget’s positively palatial home, a true fantasy in contemporary London.