By Helen Fielding
Published by Viking
306 pages
Available at Powerbooks
James Bond say hello to Helen Fielding’s newest secret agent: Joules, Olivia Joules – "as in unit of kinetic energy."
Fielding is back, fresh from the success of Bridget Jones and its sequel, Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason. Up to the same old antics, she creates a heroine that is part confused reporter, part danger vixen and puts her in the strangest situations.
Intrepid fashion reporter Olivia Joules is off to the Sudan to report on ecological disasters and comes home with a dramatic story: Fanged Locusts Attack.
Unfortunately, Olivia – of the overactive imagination – may have exaggerated quite a bit.
"We sent you all the way out there and all you came up with was two grasshoppers in a polythene bag," says her editor.
"But there was a locust cloud. It was just that it had flown off to Chad. They were supposed to be roosting. Anyway, I got you the story about the animals starving in the zoo."
"Olivia, it was one warthog – and he looked quite porky to me."
Fielding hasn’t lost her touch, displaying effortless comic timing and a taste for the bizarre. Unfortunately, these displays are few and far between, as her latest heroine seems to be more than a fraction less charming and ingenious as her most famous, and by far, best character, Bridget Jones.
In fact, Olivia is Bridget incarnate – only a much improved version. Olivia is much thinner (and gorgeous!), has a flourishing career in publishing – sort of, at least – and has no problem finding dates. Seems alright, so far. But Fielding’s attempt to ground her latest story in a post-9/11 world has instead left her story floundering.
As a British freelance journalist for the Sunday Times style section, Olivia has been sent to Miami to cover – of all things – a face cream launch. As soon as she arrives, she finds herself in the middle of a bombing, and her overactive imagination is back in hyper drive, automatically placing it as part of a terrorist attack.
This is when things start to get iffy. She meets Pierre Ferramo, a rich foreign playboy/producer/businessman who she suspects may or may not be an Al-Qaeda terrorist. Instead of heeding common sense, she goes off with him to his resort in the hinterlands and finds herself wondering, after being chauffeured in a helicopter, plied with Cristal, and set up in a dazzlingly luxurious suite, whether she’s falling for him or not.
True to form, Olivia realizes that Mr. Playboy is Mr. Majorly Wrong, and a potential terrorist to boot.
Instead of a fun romp one has come to expect from Fielding, Olivia Joules’ tone is tempered by 9/11, leaving the style brittle and the plot lifeless. Helen Fielding – formerly of the lightning sharp wit – seems to have gotten a bit lost.
Lines like "Yes, rub sweet oils into my aching bones, you wonderful, wildly strong, intellectual-looking beefcake" run amuck throughout the book. Instead of being a celebration of wit and comic brilliance, like her other novels, Olivia Joules has fallen flat, like a bad joke made even worse by its attempt to be relevant. Fielding’s written her heroine as a smart brave woman, ready to face terrorist attacks and fashion crimes no matter what; yet, she’s placed her in the oddest situations, forming plot threads that no one would believe, much less like. As Olivia flounders from one ridiculous escapade to another, one can’t help but pity the hapless heroine and hope she finds some much needed Bridget-style resilience.
Moving away from her for forte – delightfully fluffy romantic comedies – hasn’t done Fielding any good. Having her heroine write insane exaggerated comical pieces for a newspaper is one thing – we’ve all been there before – but to have her fall for a man she thinks might be a terrorist is too much to ask for from an audience, even an admiring loyal one.
James Bond might get away with it, but not Olivia Joules. Frankly, we expected more.