When I read The Bridget Jones’s Diary it struck me how many of my friends were just like the heroine; every one of them was close to this character in some way. One was obsessed with her weight and put her body on the scales ten times a day. The other freaked out all the time, with a reason and without it. The third one overthought everything, for herself and for others. The fourth one constantly looked for love adventures not being able to see what kind of a guy she was dealing with. So if, all of a sudden, for who-knows-which-outstanding services and despite the fact that the movie was already made, I would be offered a job of the casting director for the new film, I would hire all of them at once.
It wouldn’t be a movie, of course, it would be a television show because my friends would play Bridget Jones’s many clones, replicas and versions and the cinema format wouldn’t give enough space for all of them to demonstrate the level of their personal craziness. Let’s imagine the whole pack of my friends-Bridgets on the set of the show.
One would argue non-stop with a costume designer convincing him that her dress makes her look fat. The other would always be on the edge of the nervous breakdown and could never remember her lines. The third one would bother the director with her ideas of interpreting the character and offering her innovative ways to set up a scene. The fourth one would fall in love with the director of photography and would dreamily sigh all the time and send her meaningful glances at the camera instead of doing her job.
I believe, after a week of such circus, the director would have a constant headache and swallow dozens of pills an hour, the costume designer would kill himself leaving a death note, “I can’t deal with it anymore!” and the producers would simply fire me and all my mad-as-a-hatter company, putting an end to my promising career of the casting director, so I would cry out loudly for the lost chance to buy a mansion on Beverly Hills.