A review of Helen Fielding’s Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy.

Warning: spoiler central

What were you doing in 2013? I was, I think, 14 and life was pretty mundane. I remember mushy macaroni cheese at the school canteen and Year 10 Maths. I vaguely remember this book hitting the headlines as, to the horror of UK citizens everywhere, Fielding had killed off one of literary’s most-loved characters: arrogant, stuck-up, likes you just the way you are, Mark Darcy. I was far too young to appreciate the joy Bridget Jones brought to our lives then, but I soon learnt as I got older and was introduced to the world of Cafe Rouge Thursdays and Smug Marrieds.

When I started reading this book I thought it would be, as stated by a New York Times critic, ‘genuinely moving’. I thought I’d eat it up in 2 days (not 21); I thought it would be filled with Fielding’s usual wit, and, most of all, I thought there would be a point. Unfortunately, I was wrong on all counts.

Whatever you were doing in 2013, I’m sure it wasn’t as exciting as Bridget’s promising script-writing career unfolding between the pages of Mad about the Boy.

That’s right: Darcy’s died a hero’s death and Bridget is left to the mercy of her 2 children, Billy and Mabel, and her nanny, Chloe (because every relatable mother has one), and she’s trying (and failing) to become a big-time script-writer. Her rendition of Hedda Gabler making waves at Greenlight Productions.

What I struggled with most about this book, and it’s a debate I’ve always struggled with when it comes to Bridget Jones’ diaries, is the implication that she is the epitome of the female experience. I mean, how many people do you know living it up in London every weekend with a steady paid job in publishing?

I think what brought use close to Bridget was ultimately her vulnerability. Fighting the every day sexism prevalent in the media industry, making an absolute fool of herself on a Saturday night, and going downstairs to greet her mother, only be asked the dreaded question NOBODY wants to hear: ‘oh! Is that what you’re wearing?’. As my mother says, there’s a bit of Bridget Jones in all of us.

But, in Mad About the Boy I think the difference was striking. There were a lot of things I didn’t get. Why, despite having the opportunity to turn her script into a film, does Fielding make Bridget appear a foolish, weak-willed woman, preoccupied with her toy-boy instead of showing a bit more interest in what could be the opportunity of a lifetime?

I suppose Bridget does have everything in hand, having been left with no money worries, but Fielding’s insistence on having Bridget worry more about what toy-boy, Roxster, wants for tea, rather than making notes or paying the slightest bit of attention in what could be a career defining moment is not very empowering. I appreciate we all go through writing slumps, and we are all victims of procrastination, but I feel Bridget’s entire lack of care was so out-of-touch. I can assure you, if I was in with a chance of any of my ideas making a hit on the big screen, Ben (my boyfriend) would have to make his own effing tea for the foreseeable.

Of course, there’s nothing wrong with anybody wanting to impress a guy, but completely ignoring a chance of a lifetime to impress a boy is so 1980.

I liked how this book attempted to encapsulate the struggles of motherhood, trying to find one’s way in a mass of school plays, school runs and modern technology, whilst Perfect Nicolette is doing everything you’re not. I say ‘attempted’ because the genuine, heartfelt connection between Bridget and her kids is totally undermined by the fact that Bridget doesn’t really do an awful lot.

She relies heavily on her nanny which is, of course, fine, but let’s be real: how many mothers out there can stay in bed till 9am on a weekday? What’s more, Bridget didn’t seem overly fussed when her kid was sent home with a septic finger, again worrying about what Roxster would or would not like her to do. I’m all for a strong independent woman who can do and date what she wants, but I just think the whole narrative is so far away from what single parents have to face on a day to day basis. And, to be fair, I wouldn’t mind if she wasn’t so preoccupied with his needs.

And… the food. The food.

What was up with the food and the farting?

It seemed Roxster’s only personality is being 29 (no, 30) and a lover of food. A pie and curry in one night (did anybody else get to this part, when Roxster didn’t bother showing up for the pies Bridget loving took out of a box, leaving her waiting for 2 hours while he ate a curry – I would’ve told the greedy bugger to jog on!). All Bridget and Roxster seemed to talk about was food and farting – I guess a nod at how youngsters are these days… (note the sarcasm). Maybe it’s me, but I didn’t get it.

When I finally got to the end I managed to pick up the pace, as some kind of action finally started to take place. Bridget realised her toy-boy was just using her (to be fair, their ending was quite sweet, it melted this cold woman’s heart), she regained her relationship with her mother, and fell in love with tyrannical PE teacher, Mr Wallaker. The very man who for the majority of the book was downright rude – you know, that old trope!

What I found disappointing is that the relationship between Bridget and her mother could have been better unpacked within this novel, rather than wrapping up a complicated issue in about 2 pages. In fact, a lot more could have been unpacked in this book. I mean, right at the end Bridget sacks off writing her screenplay and lives happily ever after with all loose ends tied. I was left wondering what the point was after all. Darcy died for this?

I fought through this book tooth and nail, but I think I’ll have to give it a 2/5. I enjoyed the ending, but I felt the themes could’ve been explored across the book as a whole. I think, if anything, this book shows how far Bridget’s experiences really are from those of the everyday, working person.