‘Bridget Jones’s Diary’ is a treat because it gives us another ‘Notting Hill’ and ‘Love Actually’ (though it preceded the latter by two years) glimpse into British comedy at its best. Much was made of the fact when it came out in 2001 that Renee Zellweger, a Texan, would be playing the titular role, and she did a Robert De Niro/Jake La Motta by piling on the pounds and turning herself into the quintessentially English heroine who is hapless when it comes to dating and who drinks and smokes more than she should. The book, written by Helen Fielding, on which this film is based was hilarious for its barbed series of set pieces and insights, which are here replicated in a different medium.

It is a very posh world where Bridget is torn between the cad, played by Hugh Grant, and the aloof barrister, in which Colin Firth gets to imbibe a version of his own Mr. Darcy from ‘Pride and Prejudice’, which was itself referenced in the source novel. So, Firth is playing Firth playing Darcy, though not necessarily in that order. Watching this again nearly a quarter of a century after it was made, there are some scenes that are quite close to the bone, as when Bridget’s mother, a scene-stealing Gemma Jones, makes jibes – twice – about the Japanese race, which probably wouldn’t have made it into the screenplay if the film were made now.

As a film it is a caustic indictment of a certain culture surrounding relationship disasters and the way we, the audience, are entirely familiar with Bridget’s penchant for picking entirely inappropriate boyfriends – a situation ironically mirrored by her mother who leaves her husband to go for a more exotic, and caddish, suitor who turns out, like Grant’s Daniel Cleaver, to be entirely disingenuous and a charlatan. The funny thing is, though, that we can’t help but feel a little sympathy for Grant who is so overtly roguish, and cast adeptly against type compared to the sort of ‘male Bridget’ roles he played in ‘Four Weddings’ and ‘Love Actually’, that we root for him. Firth’s Darcy is the polar opposite – he comes across as unsympathetic but is actually head over heels in love with Bridget – while Grant’s Cleaver is unashamedly repugnant and roguish, but not without flair, as the film proceeds.

Whether, though, a top barrister could really get away with having a fight in a public street, beating the hell out of Cleaver, and even smashing through a restaurant window, without some kind of police intervention or a ticking off from the Bar Council, is something the film doesn’t need to worry about. Why? ‘Bridget Jones’s Diary’ may have plenty of nuggets for us about the impossibilities of love and dating, but it really does belong in a fairy tale universe where downtrodden women, unlucky in love, get swept off their feet by dashing barristers who can also save their TV careers by just so happening to be representing a high profile client who will, would you believe it, only give one interview… and that scoop goes to… Bridget Jones. Well, there are worse places to live, I guess.