The publishing world was taken by storm by the hip new way for a twentysomething London woman to tell her life - and was a welcome respite from the young superwomen with their lives and waistlines in order we're continually subjected to.

As a film version of the success of Fielding's book, this mostly fails. The devices used to make it look 'diary-like' (such as the handwritten notations along the screen) were too inconsistent and too few and far between to make any impact.

As a comedy about a twentysomething London woman, it's worth a few laughs. Bridget Jones can't give up smoking, fatty foods or the wrong kind of men, and that's about it in a nutshell until she meets the man of her dreams in a fairytale ending.

Zelweger does a faultless cockney accent, Grant seems to be relishing finally playing a bad guy, and Firth brings as much charisma and interest to his role as a coffee stain on brain wallpaper. Like most film adaptations of Stephen King novels, too much is lost in translation.