Even the leads’ age gap comes into comic play: Ashley’s “death doula” mom Lynelle (Helen Thomson) tells Gordon he appears “more in my swimming pool than my daughter’s.” Everyone’s got filter issues. A doctor proves more interested in televised golf than footage of Gordon’s cystoscopy. A real-life couple doubling as writer-showrunners, Brammall and Dyer here expand the “messy women” subgenre (“Girls,” “Bridesmaids,” “Fleabag”) into a more egalitarian “messy everything.” The vet’s receptionist reveals her family used GoFundMe to send a relative to a euthanasia clinic. It may be relatable, however, if you’ve stockpiled disastrous dating stories, or can’t get through the day without stepping on at least one rake.
As you may already have gathered, we are many, many miles from Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn exchanging polished repartee over cocktails on a moonlit balcony. By contrast, Colin presents as comparatively low maintenance: he just needs his bowels manually expressed from time to time, that’s all. Ashley, for her part, has mother issues and is prone to sleepwalking, leading to one disastrous nocturnal incident involving Gordon’s bedside cabinet. Gordon’s full name, we learn, is Gordon Crapp he tends to forget about important bills, and his 40-something body is falling into dishevelment. A combination of extortionate vet bills and a fusspot landlord obliges the pair to cohabit, while also establishing a parallel between the dog’s gradual return to fitness and its keepers’ fresh (if painfully tentative) romantic start. She, with not uncharacteristic impulsiveness, flashes a breast by way of thanks Gordon, who has been single for some time, is so distracted he promptly runs over and badly injures the pooch. While driving through Sydney’s hipster suburbs, microbrewer Gordon (Patrick Brammall) stops to let student nurse Ashley (Harriet Dyer) cross the road in front of him. Such a match demands not a meet-cute but a full-on comedy of errors. One early indicator of the determinedly perverse course the show plots through modern love is that “Colin From Accounts” thereby sticks itself with perhaps the least appealing title in 21st century television. Again, we watch – sometimes through fingers – as frazzled folk inch awkwardly towards intimacy, only this time they’re united not by accidental pregnancy, but the stray dog that lends the show its name.
0 kommentar(er)
