Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy – A Perfect Goodbye to a Dear Old Friend

Published on by Harpreet Chhachhia2 Comments

I have adored Bridget Jones ever since I first read about her in the British Council Library while doing my master’s, sometime around when the first film had just been released. I remember reading a review about how Renée Zellweger had put on weight and trained for one of the most marvellous British accents ever filmed on screen. That intrigued me enough to pick up Bridget Jones’s Diary, and from that moment on, I was hooked.

Bridget wasn’t just a character; she was a person who existed in a parallel universe, someone I could have bumped into at a bar, embarrassed myself in front of, and then laughed about it with her over a bottle of wine. She was silly, kind-hearted, brutally honest, and had a truckload of insecurities that made her incredibly relatable. She thought just like I did—only in a much quirkier, funnier, and more inimitable way.

So, of course, I followed her journey through Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason, where I nearly lost my breath laughing when she found herself in a Thai prison and taught the inmates Like a Virgin, and then through Bridget Jones’s Baby, where she teamed up with another one of my all-time favourite actresses, Emma Thompson, who played Dr. Rawlings with her signature deadpan wit.

And now, here we are, 25 years later, with Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy—the final chapter. I was 24 when I first met Bridget, and now I’m going to be 50 as I say goodbye.

In this film, we meet Bridget (Renée Zellweger) as a mother of two, navigating life without Mark Darcy (Colin Firth), the love of her life, who has tragically passed away. Seeing her without him was heartbreaking, surreal even, but true to form, Bridget carries the movie with her classic blend of chaos, warmth, and self-deprecating humour. Zellweger, once again, is absolutely brilliant in this role. It was tailor-made for her—no one else could have played Bridget as perfectly as she does. Cate Blanchett, Rachel Weisz, and other names were once considered, but let’s be honest, Rachel Weisz is simply too pretty, and Cate Blanchett… well, she’s Cate Blanchett. But Renée? She is Bridget.

There’s a new romantic interest, of course. Enter Leo Woodall as Roxster, the much younger man who is charming, cheeky, and absolutely smitten with Bridget. But here’s the thing—why do people always frown upon an older woman dating a younger man? If a 50-year-old man marries a woman 20 years younger, no one bats an eyelid. But when it’s the other way around, it’s suddenly scandalous. Why can’t Roxster be smart, funny, emotionally available, and great in bed, all at once? I was completely rooting for him. Unfortunately, the film takes a more conventional route, and Bridget ultimately ends up with her children’s teacher, played by Chiwetel Ejiofor. Nothing wrong with that—it’s sweet, stable, and safe—but I wish they hadn’t made us fall in love with Roxster only to take him away.

One of the best things about this film is how it brings back so many familiar faces, even if only for fleeting moments. Gemma Jones returns as Bridget’s mum, still delightfully meddlesome. Jim Broadbent is back as her ever-suffering father. And then there’s Mark Darcy—Colin Firth—appearing in just a few scenes but making an unforgettable impact. That one look he gives her across the room, where only she can see him… it was poignant, beautiful, and so utterly Bridget Jones.

Her old friends are back too—Jude (Shirley Henderson), Shazzer (Sally Phillips), and Tom (James Callis)—which I was especially happy about since they were mostly absent in the last film. And, of course, Emma Thompson returns as Dr. Rawlings, stealing every scene she’s in with her impeccable timing and no-nonsense delivery.

At its heart, Mad About the Boy is a film about loss, love, and moving forward. It’s about finding new beginnings even when you think your best years are behind you. It made me laugh (because Bridget always makes you laugh), but it also made me cry. It made me miss my best friend. It made me miss the people I’ve lost over the years. And, most importantly, it made me love the people I do have in my life all the more.

There’s something incredibly special about following a character for 25 years, growing older alongside her. When I first met Bridget, I was young, full of dreams, and a bit of a mess—just like her. Now, as I near 50, I realise that life never quite stops being a mess, but that’s okay. As long as we have love, laughter, and the occasional disaster, we’ll be just fine.

Bridget once said, “You know, I never really understood why you needed someone else to make you feel whole… but as it turns out, you were right. I was just fine on my own. But with you, I feel perfect.”

And honestly? That’s how I feel about this film. I was fine without it. But having it in my life makes everything feel just a little bit more perfect.

Gen X

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Born in the hazy summer of ’75, I straddle two worlds. A world where whispered secrets in hushed tones were the currency of connection, and the digital roar of today. A world where a clumsy fumble for the right cassette tape was the soundtrack to a Friday night, and now, instant access to any song ever conceived is at my fingertips. This liminal space, this bridge between the analogue and the digital, has shaped me, challenged me, and ultimately, liberated me. But my journey has been deeply marked by personal struggles, too, struggles that were often silenced in the pre-internet era.


Growing up, life wasn’t always easy. Being different in a less accepting time meant enduring the sting of prejudice, the isolation of feeling like an outsider. My father, a man of the Boomer generation, struggled to understand my sexuality. His alcoholism fuelled a volatile temper, and from the ages of 13 to 19, my home became a battleground. Physical and emotional abuse were a regular occurrence, a brutal consequence of his inability to accept who I was. These were wounds, both visible and invisible, that I carried in silence. In my generation, such experiences were often endured privately. We believed, or were led to believe, that this was simply “the way things were.” There was no readily available support network, no online community to offer solace or share similar experiences. Interpersonal relationships were forged in the crucible of face-to-face interactions, often fraught with the anxiety of revealing my true self, a self that was deemed unacceptable by my own father.


It was my sister, bless her open-minded heart, who offered a glimmer of understanding. She recognised that my sexuality was not something to be controlled or condemned. The women in my family, too, showed a degree of acceptance, though often tinged with a grudging tolerance rather than the wholehearted embrace that Gen Z enjoys today. Their acceptance, while appreciated, lacked the open-minded celebration of difference that now seems more commonplace. It was a different time, a time when even well-meaning individuals struggled to fully comprehend the complexities of sexual identity. Even my sister’s acceptance, though genuine, proved to have its limits. Years later, in my 40s, as she prepared for her wedding, she asked me to hide my sexuality for the sake of her in-laws. This request, from someone I considered an ally, cut deeply. It was a stark reminder that even those closest to us can sometimes falter when faced with societal pressures. It highlighted the subtle but pervasive homophobia that still existed, even within my own family. It was a painful lesson in conditional acceptance, a reminder that the fight for true equality was far from over. It was a blow, a betrayal of sorts, that echoed the silent acceptance of abuse that I had witnessed in my youth. But in my 40s, I had found my voice. I had learned to value my authentic self above all else. I told her, with a firmness born of years of struggle and self-discovery, that if I couldn’t be accepted for who I was, I would not be attending her wedding.


Ironically, it’s technology that has, in many ways, given me my voice. The internet, for all its flaws, has provided a platform to connect with like-minded individuals, to find community, to celebrate diversity. It has allowed me to explore my identity, to find my tribe, to finally feel seen and heard. In my early 20s, as the internet began to emerge, I tentatively sought connection, a lifeline to others who understood. It wasn’t easy. Access to gay media, information about gay lifestyles, and a broader understanding of how inclusive work cultures should function was limited. But even then, the seeds of connection were being sown. I found support, albeit in smaller measures, and began to understand that I wasn’t alone.
This generation, Gen Z, with their fluid identities and fearless self-expression, inspires me. Their willingness to challenge norms and push boundaries reflects a world I longed for as a child, a world where difference is celebrated, not condemned. They are the change, the adaptation, and I admire them for it. While I know they face their own battles against bigotry – for prejudice sadly persists – the ability to find support and community online is a powerful tool they wield, a tool we lacked in my youth.


The Millennials, perhaps, are the truly lost generation. Caught between the analogue world of my youth and the digital explosion of Gen Z, they seem to be a transitional generation, navigating a world in constant flux. For those of us born in the mid-70s, the change was gradual. We adapted slowly, absorbing the new technologies as they emerged. We experienced the world before the internet, and we witnessed its birth and evolution. This gradual transition allowed us to integrate the digital world into our lives without losing touch with the values and experiences of our past. It also gave us time to process and understand the changing social landscape, including evolving attitudes towards sexuality and gender identity. My own journey of understanding and self-acceptance was intertwined with this gradual shift. Through my studies in psychology and English literature, I began to understand the importance of empathy, acceptance, and celebrating diversity, lessons that were often hard-won in my personal life.


My 40s, finally, became my decade. It was a time of self-acceptance, of embracing my identity without apology. The scars of the past, though still present, no longer defined me. I learned to set boundaries, to refuse to tolerate disrespect, to live authentically and unapologetically. This newfound confidence, this refusal to “take shit from anybody,” is a product of my journey, a journey that spans the analogue and digital worlds, a journey that has taught me the true meaning of resilience and self-love. It’s a journey that has also taught me the importance of forgiveness, not necessarily for those who have hurt us, but for ourselves, to allow us to heal and move forward.


We, the generation born between ’69 and ’82, are indeed a unique breed. We are the bridge between two worlds, fluent in the languages of both. We remember the crackle of the radio and the flickering glow of the television, but we also understand the power of the internet and the potential of virtual reality. We value tradition, but we also question and challenge, driven by reason and critical thinking. We have seen the world change dramatically in our lifetimes, and we have adapted and evolved along with it. We understand where we come from, and we have a unique perspective on where we are going. Perhaps, then, it is our generation that is best equipped to lead, to guide, to bridge the gap between the past and the future.

50’s

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I’m looking forward to my 50s, perhaps because my 40s were the decade in which I truly began to live. It was in my 40s that I confronted my insecurities, endured heartbreaks, and experienced immense loss. I lost many of the people who truly loved me, and I nearly lost myself during the pandemic. I faced grief. I faced death. I faced the difficult truths of who I am, what I deserve, and what I can and cannot tolerate.

My 40s taught me that life is beautiful—even in its darkest moments. And if there is one thing I am utterly certain of, it is that nothing lasts forever. Everything is transient. And I don’t just mean happiness fading; even sadness must eventually leave to make space for joy. Life moves in cycles. That, I think, is the greatest lesson of the past decade—the understanding that permanence is an illusion.

I once believed that some things would always hold, while others would inevitably fall apart. But I have come to realise that even truth wavers with time, space, and circumstance. Life, by its very nature, is constantly evolving—and so have I. That is why I look forward to the next decade, because I know I will keep evolving. I am not someone who remains stagnant or gives in to complacency.

I have come to understand that the things that truly matter are not grand achievements but the small moments that bring joy. Whether it’s love, relationships, something abstract or something tangible—like playing a video game, walking on the beach, or simply stroking the head of a pet as they rest in your lap—if it brings you happiness, then it is worth embracing. It has never been the big things that mattered most. I learned this long ago—not just in my 40s, but through a slow and gradual process of self-awareness.

The things I have worked hardest to achieve—genuine human connections, staying true to myself, and being honest with the world about who I am—have always been the most important to me. I began that journey at a very young age, and by the time I reached my 40s, everything started falling into place.

Now, as I step into my 50s, I feel assured of who I am. And yet, I know I can still become better. That, perhaps, is the most exciting part—that no matter what life throws my way, I will rise above it. I will endure it. And I will grow from it.