Bridget Jones… In Bruges

Lili’s Pick: In Bruges

Lanie’s Pick: Bridget Jones’s Diary

First and foremost, I’d like to point out that last week marked our 99th and 100th movies of Double Feature Thursday—making these films our 101st and 102nd, which is… just as exciting. Bridget Jones…In Bruges, also known as Colin vs. Colin, also known as The British Invasion, was a theme dedicated to British film, more specifically, British comedies (shoutout to Lanie for coming up with the perfect title of this week’s theme). Since the Brits are in the news this week, we thought we’d take a trip across the pond and watch two celebrated works of “modern” British cinema. In Bruges, the 2008 British comedy wasn’t so much of a comedy, as it was a darkly existential romp whose sense of humor relied heavily upon racism, homophobia, ableism—singlehandedly delivered by Colin Farrell, with an eyebrow raise and slacked jaw. I was compelled by the plot: two Odd Couple-esque hitmen hide out in the fairytale-esque Bruges, Belgium, when one of them is tasked with killing the other. Brendan Gleason was naturally sweet but mysterious, and Colin Farrell? Well, he chewed the scenery like it was his breakfast, lunch, and f*cking dinner. (IYKYK) Essentially, his boldness was intriguing at first, but got old rather quickly as the film became stranger and stranger. There would be soliloquies about life and the ceaseless beat of human existence, followed by Colin Farrell insulting a little person who monologues about how there will eventually be a race war... this is an actual scene, I didn’t make it up. And I didn’t know what to make of any of it. It caused me to question what the worst aspect of this movie could be: the script, Colin Farrell’s ease with delivering the worst lines of it, or a mixture of the two. I won’t tell you how it ends, but I will tell you the ending made me go: “Right… what’s all this then?” in an exasperated British accent and all. It’s a pity we watched this second, however, the confusing, belligerent nature of In Bruges could never take away from that magic I experienced with Bridget Jones’s Diary. I can’t tell you why I avoided seeing this film for so long, perhaps it had something to do with the oversaturation of British literature in my career as an English major, maybe it had something to do with that weird, judge-y, vaguely-internalized misogynistic feeling that women and femmes are burdened with when it comes to the topic of romantic comedies. No matter how ridiculous or cheesy this genre tends to be, it can also just be fun? And so often when I read a film critic or “expert’s” opinion, I get the impression that “fun” in film is frowned upon. And to that I say RUBBISH because Bridget Jones’s Diary was, to quote Lady Gaga: “brilliant, incredible, amazing, show-stopping, spectacular, never the same, totally unique, completely not ever been done before, unafraid to reference or not reference, put it in a blender, shit on it, vomit on it, eat it, give birth to it”—and overall, really really fun. I loved just about every scene in this movie. From the charming clumsiness of Renée Zellwegger, and her genuine attempts to be a good person, to Colin Firth and Hugh Grant’s goofiest, most British fight of all time, to the expertly-timed needle drops of All By Myself, I’m Every Woman, Ain’t No Mountain High Enough, each moment of vibrant emotional expression more momentously cinematic than the last. There were hints of Legally Blonde, of Clueless, a multitude of romantic iconography that clearly inspired many romantic comedies that followed, that wasn’t at all groundbreaking, but wasn’t played out either. It is the epitome of a rom com, somewhat predictable at moments but amazingly, it was never too heavy-handed in its use of romantic comedy tropes. Something about Bridget felt real, her earnestness, her foot-in-mouth syndrome, her unsteadiness in her career, her fluctuating self-control, all a part of Renée Zellweger’s best, most lovable role. Bridget Jones walked so Fleabag could run, paving a path that helped every freely sexually-expressive woman in fiction feel less and less fictitious and more and more like a human being. And, for those who abhor the genre of romance, you’ll be happy to hear that Bridget Jones’s Diary is ridiculously hilarious—to the extent that it made my very rational father laugh as he glanced at the screen just in passing (which is no easy feat, especially for a “Chick Movie”). It’s lovely but daring, and not in the misguided In Bruges way, in a way that felt totally authentic and positive and captivating. A bloody brilliant exploration of femininity, relationships, and adulthood that felt neither spoon-fed nor pretentious—blimey, what a masterpiece.