To paraphrase her own mode of self-criticism, this latest instalment in the saga of hapless London singleton Bridget Jones is v v poor. Michael Morris’s film, adapted from Helen Fielding’s fourth novel, is a bloated, weeping sogfest that blunders laboriously through the established tropes of the series. London property porn? Check. Baying, drunk, media types? Check. Have-your-cake-and-don’t-eat-it references to society’s obsession with youth, beauty and thinness? Check.
All the old cast is back together, with some lubricious young blood pumped in, and there’s a half-hearted attempt to move the emotional dial forwards to confront age and loss. Renee Zellweger gives a performance that’s impressive in its clownish vulnerability.
