When Saunders opens the door to her guests covered in blood, manically explaining how she is “mid giblets”, it’s clear that Amandaland knows exactly how to authentically skewer the rural English richies, and that Saunders has exactly the right amount of comedy chops to pull it off. Aunt Joan’s gorgeous manor house is a deeply believable, crumbling, pre-central heating-era heap of antiques and throw pillows that you can almost smell through the screen. From the deviled eggs to the dogs that eat freely from side tables, I’m convinced the Amandaland writers must have spent time in a Saltburn of sorts at some point, because everything here is painfully on point.
