When the plot was first announced for the third Bridget Jones movie, Bridget Jones’s Baby, I was…displeased. Because I did not sit through two Bridget Jones movies—one spectacular and lovely and the other a trash mountain dumpster fire of nonsense and terrible—just to learn that not only do Bridget and Mark Darcy not make it, but now we have to deal with Patrick Dempsey coming in and Dempseying it up with a question of paternity. That is UNACCEPTABLE. I hate this movie ALREADY.
Except, like…what if I don’t?
Like…OK. I might be back in. Because there’s a big difference between “Bridget and Mark live happily ever after until whoopsidoodles potential Demp-sperm” and “this relationship we were heavily invested in has ended naturally because we already knew these characters and their relationship were flawed and that’s what we love about them and there might still be hope and now whoopsidoodles potential Demp-sperm.” It’s all about context.
That said, that second movie burned me BAD. For those who didn’t see it, imagine there’s a movie you love and then they make a sequel and the sequel involves the main character being called fat a whole bunch and ending up in a Thai prison for drug trafficking, but instead of some Brokedown Palace drama, she just sings Madonna songs with the chipper prisoners and teaches them about bras, because that’s literally what happens, I can’t even come up with a decent analogy.
I don’t know. We’ll see. All I know is I’m thrilled to see Renee Zellweger back onscreen. And in the meantime, let’s revisit happier times.
No matter what, I think we can all agree it’s a lightyears-better fate for Mark than he got in the third book.