Landman

I have a longstanding need to tell the Yellowstone fans in my life that Taylor Sheridan (creator of Yellowstone) used to make movies (Sicario, Hell or High Water, Wind River), which are far better than his TV shows. Problem is, they don’t know who Taylor Sheridan is. They think I’m just misremembering Kevin Costner’s name… my sister lives near and knows Kevin Costner, and my parents are Costner fans, and star-driven when it comes to entertainment. But I have nearly begged them all to see Sheridan’s movies, because they are his best work, made before he became the go-to king of Red America TV—sort of the red-state answer to Shonda Rhimes.

Now a dynamo of productivity, Sheridan has launched around ten TV series on the heels of Yellowstone’s success, the latest being The Madison. The problem is, Yellowstone is where it all started to go downhill. The other problem is, most of what he cranks out fuels the CBS/Paramount megalith in much the same way Jerry Bruckheimer once did—sucking all the oxygen out of the world and making something like a manly MAGAscape out of TV Land. Each time I’ve watched one of these shows, I’ve seen the seeds of smart themes alongside cringeworthy stereotypes and bravado. I’m convinced that Sheridan is smart enough to know exactly what he’s doing when he writes, directs, or even stars in (yes, he was a ripped mercenary in Lioness, etc) these shows. Landman is probably the best of them, both sincerely and ironically.

Landman is about a Texas oilman of sorts—an expert in drilling and exploiting fossil fuels, and holding complex leverage over competing interests, governments, drug cartels, and most of all, his rampaging, gonzo family. Billy Bob Thornton keeps all this from spiraling out of control by giving perfect deliveries of masterful monologues and jerkwater insults. His character is, in many ways, the straight man for a carnival of stereotypes—men and women, but mostly women—where “stereotype” is concerned. It’s all highly entertaining. It’s not quite “great television,” but it’s loud, proud, and informative in a skewed way (sometimes lapses into almost PBS-educational bursts about geology and sociology, revealing that the show is based loosely on a podcast about the oil industry). 

Most episodes have one poetic pause where a thoughtful theme such as mortality is engaged… and then we’re dunked into sloppy seconds on Landman’s oily hormonal wife, or his shameless cocktease daughter who is always caught in the maw of a leering camera lens that makes anyone familiar with the term “male gaze” check the attitude of other eyes in the room. This of course feels gross, and seems like a Taylor Sheridan obsession at this point. BUT, he’s always throwing curveballs (very obvious ones). For instance, Landman’s wife, Angela, loves strutting her stuff, greasing her cleavage, using sex as a commodity/weapon/honey trap, but she ALSO loves the elderly (spends half a season rescuing a retirement home from death-by-boredom by getting them alcohol and sex toys), does some domestic goddess stuff, and mercilessly attacks anyone who threatens her family. In short, she’s one tough bitch, as well as a whore with a heart of gold. You can fire “misogyny” potshots at the scripting, but there’s plausible deniability because Angela is, in theory, a tough cookie with a lot of pride and triumph. She’s also a shameless, shallow, mostly awful person you would hate in real life—ultra self-indulgent and spoiled, but she owns it.

Their daughter is even worse, but again, gets thrown little bones of decency to portray, between showing her tanned ass to geezers and going to college for little other reason than to chase a hunky football player, and showcase her privilege. We are occasionally treated to dialogue where she reveals she is smart enough to know the score in an “interpersonal economics” way, but she lives, like her mom, in a completely shallow, unexamined life, fueled by material girl concerns. Taylor loves to run her (and nearly all “hot females”) through the Texas tastemakers’ gauntlet of leering men, protective fathers, horny boyfriends, and woke culture clashes. There’s an elderly lawyer and an oilfield roughneck who both live in the community house with Landman’s family. Both men are treated daily to tantrums by Landman’s wife, and bikini stretching by the daughter, so there’s a ton of regretful ogling and figurative cold-showering, as well as apologetics from the Landman.

Billy Bob’s character is the ultimate pragmatist and truth-teller. He usually dominates his surroundings by knowing more and being fairly aggressive in the telling, but he also gets his ass beat by Mexican cartel goons (who compete with big oil for territory) and his wife, who is capricious and chaotic. His superpower is having everyman wisdom while also being a Dr House of delivering devastating lyrical whoop-ass that breaks people’s balls—the blunt bastard who is right, goddamnit!

Then we have the hot chick corporate lawyer. She’s Landman’s answer to Beth from Yellowstone. This gal is less vindictive than Beth, but she still fills Beth’s ecological niche: sharp-tongued bitch who will hand you your ass in court, or right here if you can’t wait. Also like Beth, she will spread her legs right quick if you’re man enough. I’ll call it a touch of “Red Sonja Syndrome,” after a character from Conan the Barbarian who essentially keeps to the code of “will bed a man if he can beat her in combat.” Not super healthy and kinda rapey by today’s standards. Taylor Sheridan likes weaving “law of the jungle” into his works, for sure.

Cooper, Landman’s son, is a reluctant hero who eats a lot of shit from his sister and raw circumstance, but he shapes up to be the sleeper genius of the fam. In his first year of oilfield exploration, he catches up to his dad in drilling acumen and soon has mad successes in Texas T. It’s way more complex than Jed Clampitt shooting a gun right into a gusher, but in the big picture, Cooper’s operating under lucky stars. His big hurdle is that he falls for a gorgeous señorita recently widowed by an oilfield accident. Coop then has to run the gamut of ways to prove his good intentions to her, win her love, and battle his way through the roadblocks of Mexican culture that might keep them apart. Mostly, he has to prostrate himself before her folks and abuela, while also showing enough machismo to fend off the jealous Mexican bros of her dead husband. I can’t say that Taylor Sheridan is wrong in his computations of this culture clash, but it’s often jammed on us hard with pithy quotes about “what (Mexican) women want.”

 Just when you thought you had all the stereotypes in this basket, here comes Sam Eliot to be the broke-down geezer grandpa. He’s Landman’s dad, pulled from a nursing home but ready to tussle. He will punch a guy in a cattle sale barn (a fave shooting location for Sheridan) and get in bar fights, but he’s introduced to us in a wheelchair—maybe its was just the despair of being “in a home.” The biggest problem is, this is Sam Eliot without a mustache. He still has the voice, but without the mustache, he has the face of the turtle from the 1970s Tootsie Roll Pops commercial. Fucking tragic. But, his character is a moaning trailer park casualty who never shuts up about sunsets that rip his soul bare like he’s snagged his dick with a treble hook. His dead wife—Landman’s mother—was apparently the worst rampaging mentally ill bitch who ever lived, and her nastiness had a “cowboy up” effect on her son but for her husband it was 100% “cowboy down.” Grandpa is all regret—until he gets a voluptuous stripper for a physical therapist (in the pool, no less). Suddenly he’s all charm and boners. And I will admit, one or two of his redneck “carpe diem” speeches not only put Landman in his place, but also achieve snippets of poetic impact. His miserable complaining sometimes crystallizes into life clarity, which is impressive for a live action Abe Simpson.

There’s also a side quest where Demi Moore survives her husband, Jon Hamm, and has to manage her inherited oil empire with the financial aid of the Mexican drug lord, who goes from being Landman’s deadly enemy to being his dangerous ally. This graying old drug lord also has a gorgeous wife we get to see in gowns, swimsuits, and underwear, so that’s nice. But the real thing to notice here is, when your side story stars Demi Moore and Jon Hamm, you know you’ve made it. Taylor’s rich pageant of character types and story tropes are so subtle you can hear them coming a mile away, but the drama that ensues now commands top talent and big ratings.

Did I mention that the pants-bulge of the Texas oilfields loves steak, beer, country music, and tits? Landman won’t let you forget it.

Stay tuned for a review of my favorite two-part storyline, where Landman’s daughter goes to college, gets a soulless non-binary roommate with a ferret, they hate each other, but then find mutual respect on the sports field. It’s enough to make you love-hate TV.