So what a pleasant shock to find that the latest Bridget Jones installment, “Mad About the Boy,” is not only sharp and humorous, despite its heroine’s aged circumstances, but also snappily written, observationally astute and at times genuinely moving. ![]() Do we really want to hear about the middle-aged escapades of Bridget Jones, the tipsy, ditsy, formerly 30-ish heroine of two previous novels and two previous movies? Hapless, inept, prone to romantic calamity, lurching from one mishap to the next through a hazy fog of faux pas and cigarette smoke, Bridget was so specific to her age that allowing her to reach 51 feels like a violation of the natural order of the fictional universe, as if a new Harry Potter book had him using magic to refinance his mortgage.
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