All I remember feeling after the (one and only) time I ever watched Bridget Jones’s Diary was an attraction to Hugh Grant as a convincingly devastating cad, plus a vague annoyance with Renée Zellweger’s twee woe-is-me schtick. The appeal of the supposedly iconic 2001 rom-com was otherwise mostly lost on me, particularly as a non-Brit unfamiliar with Hel…
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