‘Bridget Jones, wanton sex goddess, with a very bad man between her thighs…’
Based on Helen Fielding’s newspaper-column-turned-bestselling-book about a loveable but perpetually single thirtysomething living in London, Bridget Jones’s Diary is very much a product of its time (hopefully today, we wouldn’t dare consider Bridget overweight or the fact that she’s single in her thirties a problem). That being said, it remains a charming and deeply relatable film, thanks mostly to double-Oscar-winner Renée Zellweger, who injects a lovable charm into her portrayal of the almost perennially unlucky-in-love Bridget. Zellweger’s performance – British accent and all – is just highly believable; her Bridget is one of us (although how an assistant at a publishing house can afford to live alone in a one-bedroom flat in London Bridge requires a little suspension of disbelief). Throw in Hugh Grant as a smarmy love-rat, Colin Firth as a bumbling gentleman and a script co-written by Richard Curtis, and you’ve got romcom royalty.