Bridget Jones's Diary

Colossally funny first half, when our heroine bops around like a ditzy pinball, but disappointing second half, when the sobering tone and slow pace encourage us to ask questions such as, "What, really, do these men see in her?" or "Why does a philandering cod like Hugh Grant suddenly feel compelled to fight for a woman when he can easily move on to the next interchangeable conquest?" or, most important of all, "Why do no police arrive?" here and "What are the odds of that?" there. You see, the biggest mistake a movie like this one can make is to interrupt the pleasant drone of its implausibility. As long as all the working parts hum, we nod and lull and generally let the lotos work its magic. Should some distinct sound from the sea disturb our indolence, however, the white noise dispels and we wake to the obnoxious fact of life, where law is accountable to reason, love to consequence, and plot, yes, to plausibility. But, hey, maybe I, and Aristotle, am wrong.

Anyway, I enjoyed the movie immensely until it started to demand things from me, like my disbelief, whose suspension, as those of us know who have studied our Biographia, comes at a considerable cost. We expect our intellect to be stimulated and bewildered by its investment in mystery, not aggravated and perplexed by an inferior knowledge of what it already knows.