BRIDGET JONES’S BABY “I... I don’t believe it! It’s... it’s... Bridget Jones’s baby.”

BRIDGET JONES’ BABY opens with our supposedly frumpy heroine rapping to herself over a single cupcake. Another birthday gone, and, at 43, what has come of Bridget’s life? She’s single again, but killing it professionally as a TV news producer. Alas, all of her friends have kids, and she worries she’s missed her window for motherhood and elusive true love. Then she does it with two dudes, gets pregnant, and has to figure out who the dad is. Two hours of predictable antics ensue, along with undeniable, irresistible, and basic humanity. If you’re reading this review for shit-talking about the triviality of love-seeking and other life experiences that have been feminized by our culture, you’ll have to look elsewhere.

Bridget Jones is a figurehead for the romantic comedy genre—a genre oft-reviled for letting a plot device as simple as finding love carry a film. But come on: This is something that people, both men and women, want in our lives. Bridget Jones, as both a character and romcom juggernaut, shouldn’t be faulted for celebrating this pursuit. So why should we fault the (mostly female) public who will line up for this? And why should I deride this movie for being another unnecessary, unasked-for sequel, with subject matter like “love” and “babies” in this dark, apocalyptic 2016? I won’t. Watching Bridget Jones’ Baby, I was transported to the happiest moment of my life, just weeks ago, when my newborn daughter was placed in my arms for the first time, and I was happy. Love and babies are not the only light, but they are part of it. You should be so lucky as to let Bridget Jones and her filthy mouth, charming love interests, confused body positivity, and unwavering hope shine a little light into your cynical life.

But like I said, I’m a new mom. This movie might be awful. My emotions are all over the fucking place.