Watching Getting On, it’s easy to believe that the extended care ward of this poorly run hospital in Long Beach is the ends of the earth—the restaurant at the end of the universe. It's more an uncomfortable waiting room than anything else—a transitional space between life and death, but one that has the comforts of neither. Our primary window into this grim world is Dawn Forchette, registered nurse. Dawn is not your typical main character. She's the shallow, doormat type usually reserved for frustrating coworkers or distant relatives—because who cares about the interiority of a woman who is incompetent and grating, self-pitying and narcissistic? She's an afterthought of society—a character washed up in an unforgiving job, caring for other afterthoughts of society.
Nothing about this show screams entertainment. Nothing about it sounds even slightly promising as the setting of a comedy. Hospitals the world over have been set pieces for comedies and dramas aplenty, but this mismanaged department, at the bottom of the hospital's food chain? This is the room in the hospital that everyone dashes through as quickly as they can. No one stays here unless they absolutely have to.
Getting On is an American remake of a British import, and as Todd VanDerWerff pointed out in his advance review of the first five episodes, it feels like The Office. Except, if it this is even possible, darker. This isn't just suburban office workers losing their souls—this is suburban office workers working quietly while people die around them. In that sense only, Getting On's first episode is hard to watch. The camera is merciless, zooming in on the lonely, isolated patients in their beds. And the writers are unafraid to show our characters lying to patients, cheating the system, or manipulating their fellow co-workers to get what they want.
But Getting On is funny—very funny. It’s so perverse and tragic, it almost has to be funny. It's very British in that sense—exposing a dark corner of our lives, and then mining it for comedic value.