It sounds dumb and, in fact, it is, but I’m wrangling mightily with the question of whether I should attend tonight’s critics’ screening of Bridget Jones’s Baby. There’s the fact that it’s bound to be terrible (even the book is, and this is not the sort of franchise likely to transcend its origin material). Then there’s the issue of Zelweger’s face–reacting to the drama around it, reigning myself in from the impulse to hit people who feel comfortable opining on it. All told, I should probably not go to the screening–I can easily get out of the related assignment–but something in me feels I am abandoning another fortysomething woman felled by the culture that once built her up. And this is something I’ll just never comfortably do.
It sounds dumb and, in fact, it is, but I’m wrangling mightily with the question of whether I should attend tonight’s critics’ screening of Bridget Jones’s Baby. There’s the fact that it’s bound to be terrible (even the book is, and this is not the sort of franchise likely to transcend its origin material). Then there’s the issue of Zelweger’s face–reacting to the drama around it, reigning myself in from the impulse to hit people who feel comfortable opining on it. All told, I should probably not go to the screening–I can easily get out of the related assignment–but something in me feels I am abandoning another fortysomething woman felled by the culture that once built her up. And this is something I’ll just never comfortably do.