So what do they see in her, anyway?: I understand why otherwise reasonable, sensible women eagerly took to Helen Fielding's original book, even if I couldn't stand all the phony self-loathing and the irritating cutesy constructions like "singleton." It's one thing when Martin Amis renames a Fiat a Fiasco; he can write. And because Fielding can't write a true, human-motivated character, I never understood why Hugh Grant's and Colin Firth's characters would be remotely interested in Bridget.
My assumption was always that she must work some seriously strong dark magic in the bedroom (the sequel proves me right), though I have to admit the woman did look cute in that Playboy Bunny outfit in the first movie, even if I gasped aloud at a glimpse of cellulite. Zellweger's dedication to her craft at that moment was totally awesome.
I suppose what some women like about Bridget Jones is that the character feeds the cherished fantasy that some one (some man) will love them for who they are inside, never mind the squishy bits. (That Bridget doesn't have much going on inside is supposed to be of no consequence.) That's an important fantasy, and sometimes it's also true, thank God. But what's grotesque about this particular iteration of the fantasy is that I cannot believe that Fielding buys into it, except as a necessary marketing element for attracting as large a readership as possible.
Let them eat cake, because men don't really mind if you look like the side of a barn. The truth is that from the sound of all the cackling women, it's not the men we have to worry about.
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