EXT. LONDON. VIEWS. DAY.
It is snowing. Hushed New Year's morning. Views of London after the night before. Party stragglers. The fountain in Trafalgar Square has frozen. Lone pigeons cower under falling snow.
EXT. BRIDGET'S STREET. BRIDGET.
EXT. BRIDGET'S FLAT. SKYLIGHT WINDOW. DAY.
Framed through the skylight window, a very messy bed - no human being decipherable.
INT. BRIDGET JONES'S FLAT. BEDROOM. DAY.
Strange sounds emerge from the bed - then slowly movement - and at last - the worse for wear - mascara eyes - crazy hair - still in clothes from the night before - Bridget Jones emerges.
Fuck a duck.
As she crawls out of bed.
New Year's Day. Another year gone. O God. Everyone else has mutated into Smug Marrieds, having children - Plop! Plop! Plop! - left, right and centre. And I'm still going to bad parties.
INT. NEW YEAR PARTY. NIGHT.
Cut to Bridget at a party drinking a dangerously large shot.
Cut to Bridget being chatted up by a questionable man at the party - while scooping from an enormous bowl of Guacamole... over his shoulder Sharon shows dismay and Jude thinks he's gay.
Cut to Bridget, still talking to the handsome man, takes a mighty drag from a joint - and falling straight behind a couch. The man takes advantage of the moment to slip away.
Cut to Bridget emerging from behind the couch, by Sharon and Tom and Jude - making a 'don't worry - I'm fine' sign - then taking the joint back again casually - having a puff - and there she goes again, down behind the couch.
INT. BRIDGET'S FLAT. LIVING ROOM. DAY.
Cut to her sitting, present time, on a chair, in a short nightgown. She picks up a diary, unwraps plastic wrapping.
Have made big decision. This year will take total control of my life and become perfect modern woman. Resolution Number One - in order to mark triumphant year in which everything stops being shit and turns out v.g. - will keep a diary.
Kick straight into Sinatra's upbeat version of the Rodgers & Hart classic 'Have You Met Miss Jones?' for the credits.
Bridget cross-legged, writing in new diary.
BRIDGET O.S. (CONT'D) : January 1st. 9 stone 5. Alcohol units - 35 (ouch!) cigarettes 22 (she crossed out the '2' and make it '3' - '32') calories 5424 - shouldn't have finished that Guacamole.
Not time in short credit sequence to demonstrate all resolutions - but major ones include... [During this sequence she is seen enacting most of these] will stop smoking, stop drinking... (She stubs out an only just lit cigarette - throws away a glass of wine and then sort of catch-scoops it just in time back into the glass, has a sip - nasty! - so throws it away again.) …a lot. Stop fantasizing about unrealistic men...
INT. BRIDGET'S BATHROOM. INT./EXT.
Her hand slips in and slips a George Clooney calendar off the hook it hangs on the door.
INT. BRIDGET'S BEDROOM. DAY.
...and, crucial I believe, will always throw yesterday's used pants in laundry basket... (She pounces on a rogue pair, but we see, as she turns towards the laundry basket, that she actually has another pair of pants stuck to the back of her thigh. The phone goes. She walks towards it.) Will also live own life without being bullied by people into things I don't want to do.
She answers it. The music stops dead.
Yes, don't worry, Mum, I'll be there.
She hangs up.
BRIDGET (CONT'D): Very bad start.
She instantly takes the cigarette out of the ashtray.
INT. BRIDGET'S FLAT. HALLWAY. NIGHT.
Bridget, wrapped up for winter, coming downstairs with a big case. She passes a pleasant 60 year Indian man old, just taking his garbage out - Mr Ramdas.
Happy New Year, Bridget.
Thanks Mr Ramdas - how's your wife?
Oh yes, that's right. Sorry. Still sorry. Still, Happy New Year!
Thank you, sweetheart.
EXT. ST. PANCRAS STATION. EUSTON ROAD. DAY.
Snow falls on the road towards St. Pancras Station. New Year's Party revellers are making their way home. Bridget comes into view, bit by bit, through flurries of snow, carrying her overnight bag.
All in all, will develop inner poise, and sense of self as mature woman of substance, complete without boyfriend... as best way to obtain boyfriend. And not end up tragic bag lady.
Which is exactly what she looks like. She lights a cigarette - but muddles it and it drops into the snow.
Doesn't matter; giving up anyway, of course.
INT. ENTRANCE TO ST. PANCRAS STATION. DAY.
She walks past a huge poster of a very slim, long-legged model.
Will also not be paranoid about being overweight and will learn to love my thighs as being just the sort of thighs many men enjoy lying between, especially those alive in 18th century.
She stops to give money to a gaunt homeless couple, and their dog. She walks on...
What a lovely, caring person.
Yes. Shame about the thighs.
Yeah, she could lose a stone or two.Thanks, Chubbs!
INT. ST. PANCRAS STATION. MAIN CONCOURSE. DAY.
Bridget walks on through.
STATION ANNOUNCER V.O.: Western Rail wishes to inform all passengers that there is actually nothing whatsoever the matter with Bridget Jones thighs...
INT. ST. PANCRAS STATION. PLATFORM. DAY.
STATION ANNOUNCER V.O.: Passengers are reminded once again that you do not need to look like a stick insect to be attractive. Marilyn Monroe is a good example - and Madonna in the early days - and, of course, that girl who plays the flatmate in Ally McBeal and Benton's ex-girlfriend in E.R.
INT. TRAIN COMPARTMENT. DAY.
Cut to on the train. BRIDGET is writing in her DIARY in her tight scrawl.
V. important - will not fall for any more of the following: commitment phobics, misogynists, megalomaniacs, freeloaders or perverts. (She looks at male passengers beside her and coming towards her. By the time she reaches 'pervert', the camera whizzes back to 'misogynist' man.) Will also become more intelligent by reading excellent books of prize-winning quality. (She takes out a copy of 'The Famished Road' by Ben Okri. Nods intelligently as she starts to read - we glimpse a picture of the author on the back as we do - and instantly her eyelids start to droop.) Though must be careful not to lose touch with popular culture.
She takes out 'Hello' and devours it. She speaks this line out loud...
BRIDGET (CONT'D): O Fergie, Fergie, Fergie: who told you you looked good in that?
Turns another page - then obviously her concentration drifts a bit...
BRIDGET (CONT'D): Also will not obsess HOPELESSLY about Daniel Cleaver as is pathetic to have crush on boss in manner of Miss Moneypenny...
The train enters a tunnel. The windows black out.
INT. BRIDGET'S OFFICE. GENERAL OFFICE. DAY.
Ping. Out of black, the lift doors open. Slo-mo on Daniel Cleaver walking through office. He is about 35, stylish and indeed gorgeous.
BRIDGET (CONT'D): ...although, pretty damn sure that he looked at me in distinctly unprofessional manner at Christmas party. Though might have been amazement at number of flat notes in rendering of Nilsson classic.
INT. BRIDGET'S OFFICE. GENERAL OFFICE. NIGHT.
Cut to Bridget screaming into a microphone at Christmas party. Other office characters are there: Perpetua, Daniel's timid secretary, plump Simon from Marketing, Leslie from Design, Dave from Sales.
'Can't liiiiiiiiiiiive if living is without you - can't liiiiiive...'
Cut to slow-mo Daniel Cleaver, in deep conversation with Managing Director, Mr Fitzherbert, stopping, looking round in an enigmatic manner.
BRIDGET (CONT'D): Can't deny it, though - he's absolutely flipping gorgeous...
Someone crosses him, creating momentary blackness which turns back into the black of the train now suddenly emerging from the tunnel...
INT. TRAIN COMPARTMENT. DAY.
Bridget stop writing and looks up.
BRIDGET (CONT'D): ...would say 'fucking gorgeous' - but certain Mother will at some point read diary and therefore the less four letter words the better - not to mentions of blow-jobs and nobs up back bottom etc.
INT./EXT. BRIDGET'S PARENTS' HOUSE. FRONT DOOR. DAY.
Detached 50's house on the edge of pretty, thatched village. Bridget's taxi pulls up. She slumps against the front door as the bell rings the tune of a town hall clock. Her mum opens it.
Oh! There you are, Tigger. For Heavens Sake, where are you been?