There is something rather affecting about growing up and growing older alongside a fictional character. Particularly when, unlike the aspiration Barbies of Sex and the City, that character is permitted to show the inevitable wear-and-tear of being a middle-aged mum of two. Checking in with familiar faces – Jesse and Céline from Richard Linklater’s Before movies, for example; or in this case, Bridget Jones and her disreputable band of booze buddies – feels somehow more cherishable when those faces reflect the same rough patches and tough times we all endure.
It has been nearly a quarter of a century since Renée Zellweger first stumbled on to our screens as the gauche, accident-prone klutz Bridget Jones. And, in common with the core friendships that define us, our relationship with the character has evolved and deepened. The 2001 Bridget of Bridget Jones’s Diary was an insecure hot mess fuelled by vat-sized glasses of house white (or “party petrol” as Sally Phillips’s Shazza pithily describes it). Today’s Bridget achieved her happy-ever-after fairytale ending. She married Mark Darcy (Colin Firth), had two adorable kids and moved barely a yoga mat’s distance from Hampstead Heath, only to have it all snatched away. Mark, we learn, was killed while on a humanitarian mission in Sudan.
