Sophistication andwitare in short supplyin this tired sequel

To paraphrase her own mode of self-criticism, this latest instalment in the saga of hapless London singleton Bridget Jones is v v poor.

- NICK CURTIS

Michael Morris's film, adapted from Helen Fielding's novel, is a bloated, weeping sogfest that blunders laboriously through the series' established tropes.

London property porn? Check. Baying, drunk, media types? Check. Haveyour-cake-and-don't-eat-it references to society's obsession with youth, beauty and thinness? Check.

All the old cast is back, with some lubricious young blood pumped in, and there's a half-hearted attempt to move the emotional dial forwards to confront age and loss. Renée Zellweger gives a performance that's impressive in its clownish vulnerability.