A few weeks into the new year now and how’s the squeaky clean, flossed and starched new you getting on? Hmm. Yes, same. Oh well.
But never mind. Because here’s some welcome news for those of us who are as crumpled as an unmade bed — scruffy, a bit disheveled and chaotically eclectic now feels irresistibly au courant.
Consider the return of the patron saint of frayed-around-the-edges Brit-girl style, Bridget Jones, back for a fourth spin on screen, with Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy released just in time for “Galentine’s Day” (eww).
A lot has changed in the 20-plus years since Renée Zellweger first took on the role; not only for Bridget (now in her fifties, widowed with two kids in tow, and a toyboy in the form of One Day’s Leo Woodall), but also in the wider cultural context in which she, and we, now exist (social media, app culture, Botox as commonplace as alt-milks).
Despite the inevitable changes, one thing remains consistent, and that’s the Bridget Jones look. Hair with overdue-a-refresh highlights shoved into a topknot, too big or too small cardigans, a battered Mulberry bag and public pajama-wearing are all still on the agenda. And although we’ve always loved her just the way she is (aww), what’s different this time is that it’s oddly desirable rather than just plain relatable.
It wasn’t always the case. I should know. I was 16 when the first Bridget Jones film came out. “Has anyone ever told you,” I would get asked with alarming regularity, “you look like Bridget Jones?” (Never the double Oscar winner Zellweger, always Jones.) Blonde hair aside, the similarities between teenage me and thirtysomething Bridget were more “vibes” based — a shared affinity for Marlboro Lights and ghastly romances, a propensity to make a tit of oneself, for example — than physical.
I can’t say I was thrilled about it, though. A teenager in the Noughties was only going to hear one thing — “fat” — although that tells you more about the toxic standards of the decade than anyone’s BMI. And anyway, how dare they? Mid-teens me knew that by the time I was in my thirties obviously I would be a “smug married” with a shipshape, polished, grown-up’s wardrobe to match. Wrong on both counts, Laura. Ahh, the cockiness of youth!
I can’t say I’d mind the comparisons so much now, though; nor can I say they’d be wholly off the mark. Even at my polished best I am prone to be asked if I’ve lost my hairbrush, or did I know I had a ladder in my tights, or was my top supposed to be like that or is it just inside out? I am fond of an accidentally-on-purpose print clash, all my best-loved bags and shoes are bruised through wear, and I am not averse to doing the school run in half gym kit/half PJs and a big coat — except there’s no school and no running, it’s just me sauntering to Gail’s. Basic hygiene and quality fabrics (cashmere, buttery leather) keep me looking (I think, I hope) like I belong in rom-com London and not 28 Days Later London.
Scruffy, a bit disheveled, and chaotically eclectic now feels irresistibly au courant.
If you’re thinking “Bridget Jones as a style inspiration” is a bit of a reach, well, I get it. Her wardrobe tends to offer comic lubrication, serving primarily as a punchline — laughably large pants, the too-short skirt, the Playboy bunny, the Christmas jumpers. According to the trailer, Mad About the Boy continues that tradition: “Why’s your granny wearing pyjamas?” asks one of her daughter’s friends (there’s something to be said for being a “smug single”, you know). Certainly nobody ever spoke about Bridget Jones in the same way they revered celluloid’s most stylish — think Catherine Deneuve’s Yves Saint Laurent-clad bourgeoisie in Belle de Jour or Audrey Hepburn’s plucky Givenchy elegance in Funny Face — nor should they. It’s about an attitude, the way things are worn, rather than the (mostly unremarkable) pieces themselves.
But that attitude resonates. So much so that a couple of years ago it got the TikTok treatment, packaged up as the “frazzled English woman” trend (any genuine frazzled Englishwoman is always running too low on battery to check TikTok — if she even knows what it is); see the mildly eccentric, loosely bohemian-coded, haywire look worn by Kate Winslet in The Holiday or Keira Knightley in Love Actually or Helena Bonham Carter in real life. Sure, the Parisians have their much mythologized effortless elegance and the Californians might own athleisure, but nobody does manic messiness quite like the Brits. And since I quit binge drinking years ago and prefer coffee to tea, the most patriotic thing about me today is my dedication to the disheveled bit. Get dressed in the dark and think of England.
Plus, what was the agenda-dominating, zeitgeist-suffocating “Brat” moment and its author, Charli XCX, if not a celebration of mess and imperfection? Not to point fingers, but the type of woman who hasn’t applied her make-up on the Tube, walk-of-shamed with her knickers inside out, or chuffed on a cheeky cigarette out of the bedroom window just isn’t going to get it.
Sure, the Parisians have their much mythologized effortless elegance and the Californians might own athleisure, but nobody does manic messiness quite like the Brits.
There was also a haphazard sensibility on the catwalk this season, with seemingly incongruous elements chucked together in apparent haste. An anorak thrown on over a ritzy cocktail dress, say, at Prada and Burberry; embellished pop socks with hiking boots at Fendi; a tailored blazer with a Nike sports bra at Italian, party-girl favorite The Attico. At Miu Miu — bastion of the haute mess movement for a few seasons now, having already made bed hair (autumn/winter 2023) and blister plasters (spring/summer 2024) desirable — collars are askew, knits tied around the waist like improvised bodices, square-toed loafers worn with knee-high socks and pleated skirts as if they were the only pair of matching shoes you could find this morning. Heftily proportioned, bulging, mum-on-the-run handbags are back too; ditto pointless decorative belts, just-rolled-out-of-bed nighties and a parade of wickedly weird juvenilia. A clutch shaped like a decoy duck (Simone Rocha), a fragrance flacon (Balmain) or an American football (Monse) all have that tang of glorious chaos. How did that end up here?
So why now? The answer, I think, is that it is a welcome antidote to the air-brushed, anodyne, beige-washing of algorithmic taste. Boring! A look inhabited by a woman with spirit, spunk and substance, it’s about squaring up to the chaos of the world head on. Still, who would actually aspire to be a slightly blurry image of fizzy disarray? It’s not something you aim for — that’s not the point. It’s more about an acceptance of the charm of being a bit threadbare, of wholly occupying the nooks and crannies of your existence. Filling your life, not filtering it. Because the woman who looks like this hasn’t given up, she has given in — to the moment, to whatever is chucked at her. She’s alive — and, trust me, she’s much better company than the squeaky clean, flossed and starched new you that you were going to debut for 2025.
Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy is in theaters 2/14
Laura Antonia Jordan is a London-based journalist
