At the beginning of the new documentary Brendan Courteneva We need to talk about Mom (RTÉ One, Monday, 9:35 am) – the cross between a frank personal journal, a financial advisory program and a presentation – the lecturer is captured in the Freudian translation.
Shortly after his family got together to scatter the father of ash in the Dublin Gulf, whose family care was the subject of Courtney's intimate documentary We have to talk about dad at the beginning of last year.
Brendan's mind is embarrassed to see clearly. "As soon as it calms down, we can hope to start making some decisions about it," he says. She stops right now, turns her eyes and looks back at the camera's accusation: "We …" says mildly lethal. "She can start making decisions for her."
It's a story, because if Brendan needs to talk about Mom, he does it with his deep worries, private fears, and a characteristic approach. A woman of the seventies, Nuala Courtney is healthy, sharp, caring and astonishingly glamorous. Not surprisingly, she and Brendan should have such a close relationship: in many cases they are dead rings. Like many similar family members, this could be the reason for good humorous tensions between them.
Where they are different, their look is in the future. Brendan, who has built a career in giving life advice, whether sartorial or financially, recognizes plans for a sailor to keep the trees in the sea. Nuala tends to go with electricity.
He is happy to be in the form of one of Brendan's financial guidelines, we find that his mother has no retirement or nest egg, and even more embarrassing, no righteous understanding of herself.
Her house is worth 400,000 euros, however, estimates Brendan, which gives the show an excuse to explore some fantastic alternatives as it decomposes on the coast of Alicante to explore sunlight, stucco, swimming pools and supermarkets. "I was not trying to get rid of moms, but I tried to show her that she could still plan a bright and happy future," Brendan says.
(I got that Brendan trying to get rid of mum.)
If the show is fascinatingly uneven, this is because, for all its careful planning, Brendan can not predict where his efforts will be. As with that freudian harmony, director Joanne McGrath is brilliant with her inclu- sions, posing for every unusual chat that is playing on cameras, the more it affects the one that does not.
"Freedom," Nuala notices her new individual status, with something like awe. "Now I can do what I love. It's hard."
At age 47, Brendan seems to be a gadabout who saw the sumptuous end of the party. He can not do everything he likes – that's hard. "I did not have children for reasons," he says. "I do not want to be a caretaker. It seems to me that I'm a businessman.
Any great solution, however, brings another matter of reality: the people they are facing in a retired retirement home that have lost their spouses or their retirement; financial advice from Eoin McGee so scary to even suppress Brendan; the mechanic carpenter preserved the homelessness of a happy break.
"Why did not he see it coming?" Brendan inquired. "Why did not I see it coming? I suppose we do not see it because it's almost unjust.
It is. And when the tearful Nuala points to the unrighteousness in this project, prompted to think of a sunburn or decline, before he is ready or ready, Brendan stops in his paths.
"I never thought the time would come when I would have to get out of my house," she says. "And I no longer want to talk about it."
"All right," he says.
In the end, they think of one last idea: turning Nualin's home into an older apartment with separate accommodation. Maybe he says that all these funny jokes about moving together stop. Thinking of our earlier introduction to the incredibly magical 105-year-old man in the American Retirement Complex, who lives alongside his 73-year-old daughter, feels less like an unusual incarnation of prophetic surrender.