Bridge... Brijet... Bridjt.. Briget.. how on Earth do you spell this damn name? Oh well, guess I'm illiterate. You know who definitely isn't illiterate? The amazing team of, book-writing, script penning, comedic geniouses that created the razor-sharp and laugh-out-loud movie that may just even be Emily's favourite flick!

Expertly acted, the delightfully witty characters fly of the page and onto the screen to deliver us the endlessly entertaining playboy that is Hugh Grant's Daniel Cleaver, the second coming of Mr. Darcy in Colin Firth's Mark Darcy, and the delightfully relatable everywoman that is Renée Zellweger's Bridget Jones.

Join us for a wonderful movie we all like to call "Bridget Jones's Diary".... because that is it's name...

What, another DOUBLE FEATURE?! What is it about movies from 2004 that makes us itch to watch more than one at a time? Speaking of itching, something tells me a few characters from The Girl Next Door are no strangers to that particularly 'prickly' sensation...

Join us as we watch a walking bag of hormones, morning wood, and teenage naïveté, fumble around in the dark trying to land the insert "shallow-as-a-wading-pool, blonde sex-symbol, manic-pixie-dreamgirl archetype" here—in a movie that throws around more uh... "legacied" f-words than a bunch of high school hockey bros in an uncomfortable locker room.

It’s crass, it’s crude—but damned if it isn’t a magnificent time capsule and exaggerated snapshot of the early-2000s, all-American high school experience.

Oh, and then there’s the other movie, where everything dies at the end… not least of all Ron Howard’s once-ambitious and genuinely promising plans for what had, by all accounts, started off as a really good idea for a compelling film. Woops.

This movie has the same energy as excitedly going to grab some ice cream from the freezer but discovering that the only flavour left in the neopolitan container is strawberry. Or when you go to chow down on that perfect sandwich you made earlier and have been craving all day, only to take a bite and discover that the tomatoes, pickles, and sauces have made the bread all soggy. Or when you entrust the director of National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation to remake a revered French psychological thriller, adored by cinephiles for decades, inspiring the likes of Alfred Hitchcock's "Psycho"...

Oh wait a minute - that last one is what happened here.

Want to bungle Sharon Stone's titanic sex-symbol status in the prime of her carrer? This movie does! Want to hand five Oscar nominees a dogshit screenplay with nothing to work with? This movie does! Want to watch a teacher throw a kid into an e-coli infested swimming pool at school? Sure why not!

This movie was...so close. It had it all. The source material, the talent. But in the end, all we got were a few quippy one liners, a weird Catholic-sex thing, and Chazz Palminteri uncomfortably yelling at women in public.

I wanted to like it, but I also wanted to be hit in the head with a garden rake and thrown into a swimming pool.

Get your tea and crumpets ready as we travel back to enjoy the absolute staple of the British institution that is Four Weddings and a Funeral. You may have never realized that the likes of Love Actually, Bridget Jones's Diary, and Notting Hill were all born of this O.G. cultural touchstone and box office smash hit - that's ok because we'll tell you all about it here in excrucuating detail.

Never mind the fact that, upon closer inspection, this movie is essentially about two narcissistic, self-absorbed sex addicts who have, without a doubt, shattered the hearts, hopes, and overall faith in humanity of multiple so-called 'friends' along their journey to find whatever version of 'true love' might even be possible for individuals afflicted with their level of antisocial personality disorder.

Sheesh, these two characters were made for each other... but my my... that 32-year-old Hugh Grant is charming so it's probably all ok...

This movie will have you asking questions like, "where are we?" and, "is it ethical for white people playing non-white people to have dreadlocks?" or perhaps, "do the dinosaur-deniers have a point?" and maybe even, "how do the druid guys get any slaving done with nails that long?"

I don't think that the 'BC' in the title of this movie stands for "Bull-Crap"; but, if it did, it wouldn't be a complete stretch. This movie is like every supermodel that high-school aged teenagers fell in love with. Pretty gorgeous, if not some large percentage artificial, with all of its atributes splayed out on the surface and limited in depth... but maybe that's not fair to the supermodels.

This movie is... borderline fine. Looks pretty decent, sounds horrible, and has a plotline so weak it could for sure be confused for one of those historic dramatizations you saw at the last history museum you went to.

Come for the wooly mammthos, stay (or leave) for the janky accents and more bronzer than you shake a bone spear at.

If there is a limit to how much borderline-problematic representation of native american culture can be stuffed into a single movie, this film makes every attempt to find out. Watching this movie made me feel like I was shot into an alternate universe wherein Jonathan Taylor Thomas is a little shit (dare I say - future serial killer) and Chevy Chase is a bona-fide good, kind, soul. It made my skin crawl.

Thank the lords of nostalgia for rollerblades, the yellow Walkman (you know the one) and baggy grunge-era hoodie-forward outfits. Without them, I'm not sure that I could have endured the 'definately-not-Italian' Italian gangster, the scream-at-your-TV bad parenting, the...for some reason... actual clown, and the worst depiction of Home Alone-ing since.. well probably ever, without gouging out my eyes.

Someone please explain to me "háu" this script ever got a green light.

This movie is the third installment of the Ace Ventura franchise, wherein Ace is depressed, lets down his guard, contracts rabies from a rabid dog, and falls into a hallucinatory fever-dream psychosis, and I will die on this hill!

From the time where alt-rock bands and the second British invasion were dominating haircuts and fashion, comes a script that could only have been pitched as "too many manic, arbitrary ways to count to 23" intercut with "over-the-top 'noire' detective narrative, initially intended as parody for SNL". Come and watch a lanky white guy hump his way through the least thrilling psychological thriller possible, accompanied by bad parenting choices, an objectively a-moral wife, out of place Carrey improv, and enough plot holes to make you wonder, "How did Carey earn 23 million dollars for this hogwash - maybe I am ok at my job...".

Please, someone throw me out a window so I can develope amnesia and forget I ever saw - what I can only assume was - an early attempt at viral marketting for "23andMe".

Air humping, butt cracks, questionable breakfast foods, alligator wrestling, glasses of "shut-the-hell-up", Bob Barker's fast hands (thanks Chuck Norris), and - what we feel - is an unforgivable and uninvestigated PR strategist's ploy to ruin a man's life for golf ratings. Happy Gilmore was the cornerstone of immature comedy for young folks in school halls and playgrounds the world over. The number of quotes from this movie that we still say every year is.. not zero. We've all taken a running start at our ball with the "Happy Gilmore" golf swing at one point or another, and when mini putt gets the best of us, we know "it's all in the hips" and that we should "just taaap it in". This is Adam Sandler's best comedic work for which we have "endless love" - and I'll jersey and sock anyone who tries to say otherwise.

Head to your "Happy Place" and give this one a listen... ya' jackass!