NYT reviews the new Bridget Jones flick:
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 Ms. 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.
I rather liked the original novel, actually, although the movie was rather lame. But this rerview amused me as I’ve never understood how some women expect to be valued for what is inside when all that’s there is an unpleasant and superficial narcissist.