Luke Ford

Rick Marin writes for Commentary Magazine:

The Anti-Woke King of Hollywood Lets Loose

Taylor Sheridan’s shows explain how and why we got Trump again

It’s not often that a TV show not only nails the zeitgeist but anticipates it—that zeitgeist being the election of Donald Trump and concomitant rebuke of the Democratic political-cultural agenda. Make that TV shows, plural, all from the ridiculously prolific keyboard of Taylor Sheridan. His massive hit Yellowstone spawned two prequels—1883 and 1923—and five more series: Mayor of Kingstown, Tulsa King, Lawmen: Bass Reeves, Lioness, and, most recently, Landman. He did all of this in six years, after writing an Oscar-nominated script for a Texas bank-robber movie called Hell or High Water in 2016. If Sheridan told his patron studio, Paramount, that he wanted to do a show about paint drying, they’d find a way to air it. And back up a Brink’s truck to his Texas ranch for the privilege.

Such is the 54-year-old writer-director-producer’s Midas touch with “flyover country”—as New York and Hollywood have long dismissed their red-state viewership. Even more remarkable is how this unfettered clout is manifesting itself in his writing. He offered confusingly mixed political messages in the first couple of years of Yellowstone—though not so mixed that its audience didn’t immediately understand what he was trying to say and make the show the biggest hit on television, despite airing on the Paramount Network, which you had to search high and low for in your cable package. Now his mix of cultural conservatism, libertarian/Jeffersonian objection to federal overreach, and muscular foreign policy is fully out of the closet. Consider two typical Sheridan monologues.

The first is from Landman, a soapy-actiony drama that premiered in November 2024 and that’s set against the fracking-fueled West Texas oil boom. Billy Bob Thornton plays Tommy Norris, a roughneck fixer “landman” for a fictional wildcatting outfit called M-Tex. The company’s snarky young lawyer is surprised when Tommy tells her they use wind farms—what she calls “clean energy”—to power pumps so remote that they’re off the grid. He claps back, “They use alternative energy. There’s nothing clean about this.” She throws him a Zillennial eye roll: “Please, Mr. Oilman, tell me how wind is bad for the environment.” So he does—with impassioned, profane eloquence—as they stand under a towering 400-foot wind turbine that stands on a concrete pad that covers a third of an acre and sits 12 feet deep.

“Do you have any idea how much diesel they have to burn to mix that much concrete?” Tommy schools her. “Or make that steel? And haul this s—t out here and put it together with a 450-foot crane? You wanna take a guess how much oil it takes to lubricate that f—n’ thing? Or winterize it? In its 20-year lifespan, it won’t offset the carbon footprint of makin’ it. And don’t get me started on solar panels or the lithium in your Tesla battery. And never mind the fact that if the whole world decided to go electric tomorrow, we don’t have the transmission lines to get the electricity to the cities. It’d take 30 years if we started tomorrow.”

He isn’t done: “And unfortunately for your grandkids, we have a 120-year-old petroleum-based infrastructure. Our whole lives depend on it. Hell, it’s in everything. That road we came in on. The wheels on every car ever made, including yours. It’s in ten-nis rackets and lipstick and refrigerators and antihistamines. Pretty much anything plastic. Your cellphone case, artificial heart valves, any kinda clothin’ that’s not made of animal or plant fibers. Soap, f—n’ hand lotion, garbage bags, fishin’ boats—you name it. Every f—n’ thang. And you know what the kicker is? We’re gonna run out of it before we find its replacement…. Getting oil outta the ground is the most dangerous job in the world. We don’t do it because we like it. We do it ’cuz we run outta options…. There ain’t nobody to blame but the demand that we keep pumpin’ it.”

The clip went viral (Ted Cruz reposted it on X), so vivid is it as an indictment of the hypocrisies of “green” energy. The kicker is the lawyer’s sudden terror at the sight of a rattlesnake at her feet. Tommy advises her to get the hell away from it, but she freezes. He has to fetch a shovel from his pickup and cut the rattler’s head off before this damn fool city girl gets herself bit. An act of rugged chivalry that bookends their meet-cute in a bar the day before, when he asks the bartender to get a club soda for “the lady” and she language-polices him:

“I’d prefer if you didn’t refer to me as ‘the lady.’”

Tommy feigns surprise: “Oh, did I guess wrong? I’m so sorry, sir. And hats off to the plastic surgeon that shaved that Adam’s apple.”

You could call this sexist or transphobic or whatever, and plenty of reviewers have, but sexism is a tricky xcharge to level against Sheridan. The women in his fictional universe may be alluring objects of the male gaze, but these pant-suited hard-asses are seldom the weaker sex. Kelly Reilly’s Beth Dutton in Yellowstone throws as mean a punch as any male Montanan, especially since Kevin Costner’s John Dutton exited the series. Helen Mirren as Cara Dutton in 1923 is as flinty and unflappable as her husband, Jacob (an ur-flinty Harrison Ford). And Lioness is built around a CIA program that trains and deploys ruthless female “operators.” It stars Zoë Saldaña as Joe McNamara, who can out-alpha any of her team’s hulking “gray men” (ex–Special Forces contractors) and thinks nothing of ripping them a new one if they get out of line. Oh, and that smug lawyer who got scared by the snake? She’s as lethal as any diamondback when it comes to defending Tommy in a liability lawsuit. “You think I got this job because I’m pretty?” she sneers, after absolutely demolishing her male opponents in a deposition.

Is that sexist? Or, to paraphrase Nigel Tufnel in Spinal Tap, is it sexy?

The second season of Lioness also has Sheridan flying his freak flag, which is basically a big ol’ Stars and Stripes. China is the “big bad,” having contracted a Mexican drug cartel to carry out a provocative geopolitical gambit, kidnapping a congresswoman (and murdering her family) to force us to retaliate on Mexican soil, robbing us of moral high ground vis-à-vis Taiwan. As the show’s deputy CIA director explains to the secretary of state:

“China is Mexico’s No. 1 trade partner in crude oil natural gases as well as gold. So any military response to this on Mexican soil renders our opposition to a move into Taiwan as hypocritical to both NATO and the UN. And with Russia chairing the Security Council, China has free rein for a Taiwanese invasion with little or no consequences.”

The secretary of state, by the way, is Morgan Freeman. Nicole Kidman is also in the Situation Room. Sheridan’s casts are an embarrassment of A-listers (Jon Hamm and Demi Moore are supporting players in Landman). Proof that his critics may not understand on what side their bread is buttered but the actors, or their handlers, certainly do.

The war games in Lioness have the whiff of Deep State paranoia, as if all the world’s affairs are decided by five people in a badly lit room. As do the scenes with Kidman (who plays Zoë Saldaña’s CIA boss) and her husband, a master-of-the-universe money man who issues cryptic, portentous advice at the breakfast table. “Take a look at Mexican exports,” he mumbles from behind his laptop. “Particularly oil.”

Give Sheridan credit for breaking down sophisticated concepts, even boring ones, and giving them dramatic urgency. In the opening scene of Landman, Tommy explains the difference between surface and mineral rights. Yawn, you may think. But no, because he does it with a burlap bag on his head while cartel enforcers beat the crap out of him. Spoiler alert: Tommy wins the argument. He’s seen worse. His ex-wife—a blonde bombshell timed to blow up every time she shows up in his life—is more dangerous than any sicario.

Another hot take is what Sheridan sees as the woke degradation of the American military: “The Army does sensitivity training now. When I served, there was none of that sh-t. There was no bathroom of the gender you decide you are today or any of that bulls—t…. Women and fags and f—ing ladyboys and dykes. That’s our Army now.”

Sounds like something out of Pete Hegseth’s book The War on Warriors. But what makes this speech so unexpected is that Sheridan puts it in the mouth of a Mexican-American money launderer. The money launderer’s daughter, a member of the Lioness squad, has been tasked with turning her father on his cartel-boss brother. Her cover is a fake dishonorable discharge from the Army, news that precipitates his rant. Which it turns out is just a warm-up for a peroration on the decline and fall of the American empire. Like Tommy’s soliloquy in Landman, it bears quoting in full:

“The first sign an empire is failing is when its people question the institutions the empire was built on. The structure of government, the churches, the schools. They reject God because the emperors believe they are God. And the people become so rich, everyone believes they are an emperor as well. And too good to do the jobs that built the empire in the first place. So they outsource those jobs. And they open their borders to allow people desperate to do all the other jobs the other people are too rich to do. Then comes the guilt for all this wealth. But still the empire thrives. And now everyone questions their wealth. Then they question themselves. And then they reject everything that built the empire to begin with. They destroy their own symbols, attack themselves like a cancer, attack the people who protect the empire, attack you for protecting it. Then the wolves come. And all the people who lived like emperors will know the suffering they blamed themselves for creating. And they will be slaughtered. And a new empire will rise from its ashes. Then the cycle begins again.”

Agree with Sheridan’s doomsday prognostication or not, it’s a pretty articulate summary of similar warnings offered by Ayaan Hirsi Ali or Douglas Murray about the West’s complacency in the face of Islamic fundamentalism. But again, Sheridan doesn’t rely on his actor Demián Castro’s charisma to carry the day. The tension underneath the scene comes from the fact that this criminal holding forth in his Dallas mansion doesn’t know his daughter is there to make him a stooge of the CIA. And she doesn’t know if she’s up to the task of turning her beloved father. One of Sheridan’s gifts—and they are manifold—is his ability to get out his worldview through unlikely messengers caught in undeniably compelling circumstances.

Grok says:

Taylor Sheridan’s politics, as reflected in his shows, are a slippery beast—hard to pin down and often misinterpreted by fans and critics alike. He’s the guy behind Yellowstone, 1883, 1923, Landman, Lioness, and a slew of others, and his work dances across ideological lines in a way that keeps people arguing. Is he a conservative cowboy whisperer or a sly progressive in boots? Let’s break it down through his creations.
Start with Yellowstone. It’s a sprawling neo-Western about the Dutton family fighting to hold onto their Montana ranch against developers, Native Americans, and government overreach. On the surface, it’s got red-state bait: rugged individualism, distrust of bureaucrats, and a love for land over progress. John Dutton (Kevin Costner) growls lines like, “This is America—we don’t share land here,” which vibes with a certain anti-establishment, property-rights crowd. The show’s pro-rancher slant and disdain for corporate suits can feel like a love letter to flyover country. No wonder it’s a hit with viewers who’d rather watch Fox News than HBO—Season 5’s finale pulled 11 million viewers, per Paramount, a series high.
But Sheridan himself scoffs at the “red-state Game of Thrones” label. In a 2022 Atlantic interview, he said, “The show’s talking about the displacement of Native Americans and the way Native American women were treated and about corporate greed and the gentrification of the West, and land-grabbing. That’s a red-state show?” He’s got a point. The Duttons aren’t heroes—they’re flawed, often ruthless, clinging to a legacy built on stolen land. The neighboring Broken Rock Reservation gets real screen time, with characters like Thomas Rainwater pushing back against historical erasure. It’s not exactly Trump rally material when you’ve got scenes mourning Native suffering or exposing corporate vultures.
Then there’s 1883 and 1923, prequels digging deeper into America’s messy past. 1883 follows settlers trekking west, showing the grit but also the cost—immigrants die, Native tribes get screwed, and the “heroic” cowboy myth takes a beating. 1923 goes harder: Teonna Rainwater’s arc is a gut-punch, enduring rape and beatings at a boarding school run by sadistic nuns. She kills one with a sack of Bibles, whispering, “Know it is the land that is killing you.” It’s anti-colonial rage, raw and unapologetic—stuff that’d make a progressive nod approvingly. Sheridan’s not shy about showing the ugly underbelly of Manifest Destiny.
Shift to Landman, his 2024 oil-boom drama. Billy Bob Thornton’s Tommy Norris is a fixer for wildcatters in West Texas, navigating cartels, regulators, and corporate greed. It’s got a libertarian streak—big government’s a hassle, and roughnecks are the real MVPs—but Sheridan doesn’t glorify the oil barons. They’re often the villains, screwing over the little guy. He respects the workers, not the suits, which tracks with his broader skepticism of unchecked power, whether it’s Washington or Wall Street.
Lioness leans into foreign policy, and here’s where it gets spicy. Zoe Saldaña’s a CIA operative in a shadowy program, and Season 2’s finale has Morgan Freeman’s Secretary of State lamenting endless wars: “What makes me sick is how little will change.” It’s anti-interventionist, skeptical of the military-industrial complex—sentiments you’d hear from both MAGA isolationists and AOC-style progressives. Yet Sheridan reveres the grunts, the patriots who follow orders despite the futility. He’s not anti-military; he’s anti-mission creep.
His politics aren’t a monolith. On Joe Rogan’s podcast in 2023, he called COVID vaccine mandates “Orwellian” and ripped into critics who judge art through a woke lens, saying they’ll prop up a bad movie if it fits their agenda. That’s a conservative culture-war flex. But he’s also bashed capitalism’s excesses—on Rogan, he and Joe critiqued its impact on the average Joe—and reportedly said in 2017, “Can we just impeach that motherfucker right now?” about Trump (he later denied it). He’s anti-woke but not knee-jerk right-wing; anti-corporate but not socialist.
What ties it all together? Sheridan’s obsessed with authority and purpose. His characters—cowboys, soldiers, oilmen—know their place, even if it’s brutal. In Yellowstone, it’s family, tribe, land. In Lioness, it’s duty, however flawed. He told The Atlantic he wants to reach people losing ranches, not preach privilege to them. His shows valorize those who do the work, not those who make the rules. That’s why both red-staters and blue-staters claim him—he’s less about ideology and more about vibe: gritty, unpolished, and pissed off at power.
So, his politics? A mashup—libertarian leanings, a soft spot for the underdog, and a middle finger to elites, all wrapped in a moral lens that’s more about survival than party lines. His shows don’t spoon-feed answers; they just show the fight.

Rick Marin’s essay, “The Anti-Woke King of Hollywood Lets Loose,” published in Commentary Magazine on January 14, 2025, dives into the phenomenon of Taylor Sheridan, the writer-director-producer behind hits like Yellowstone, Landman, and Lioness. Marin paints Sheridan as a Hollywood outlier—a red-state champion who’s turned TV into a gritty, anti-establishment playground, raking in viewers and cash while thumbing his nose at progressive sensibilities. The piece is a mix of cultural analysis, fanboy enthusiasm, and political framing, but it’s not without its stumbles. Let’s break it down.
Strengths
Marin nails Sheridan’s cultural heft. He’s right that Sheridan’s tapped into something primal—his shows dominate ratings (Yellowstone Season 5 finale hit 11 million viewers, per Paramount) and resonate with an audience Hollywood often ignores. The essay highlights Sheridan’s insane work ethic: six years, eight series, countless scripts, all while buying a 266,000-acre Texas ranch. That’s a compelling hook—Sheridan as the cowboy auteur who out-hustles the coastal elites.
The piece also smartly ties Sheridan’s rise to a broader zeitgeist, pegging it to Trump’s 2024 re-election and a “rebuke of the Democratic political-cultural agenda.” Marin’s got data to back the vibe: Yellowstone and its spin-offs (1883, 1923) consistently pull massive numbers despite airing on niche platforms like Paramount Network. He’s onto something when he calls Sheridan a voice for “flyover country,” a demographic that’s fueled his Midas touch.
Marin’s best insight is Sheridan’s knack for digestible complexity. Take Landman’s opening: explaining surface vs. mineral rights while Billy Bob Thornton’s character gets pummeled by cartel goons. It’s a vivid example of Sheridan’s style—high stakes, no preaching, just raw storytelling that hooks you before you realize you’re learning something.
Weaknesses
The essay’s big flaw is its obsession with the “anti-woke” label. Marin slaps it on Sheridan like a bumper sticker, but the evidence is shaky. He cites Sheridan’s disdain for military “sensitivity training” and woke culture (Landman’s Tommy railing against “bathroom of the gender you decide you are today”), but that’s just one thread in a bigger tapestry. Sheridan’s own words—dismissing the “red-state Game of Thrones” tag in a 2022 Atlantic interview—undercut Marin’s thesis. The guy’s shows tackle Native displacement (Yellowstone), corporate greed (Landman), and futile wars (Lioness), stuff that doesn’t neatly fit a conservative box. Marin cherry-picks to fit his narrative, ignoring how Sheridan’s anti-interventionism or respect for workers could just as easily vibe with progressives.
The tone’s another issue. Marin’s gushing—“If Sheridan told Paramount he wanted to do a show about paint drying, they’d air it”—crosses into hype-man territory. It’s less critique, more cheerleading. He name-drops A-listers (Morgan Freeman, Helen Mirren) and big budgets (half a billion a year from Paramount) but doesn’t interrogate Sheridan’s actual output. Are these shows good beyond their ratings? Marin sidesteps flaws like Lioness’s thin plots or Yellowstone’s soap-opera drift, leaving the piece feeling one-sided.
There’s also a whiff of projection. Marin frames Sheridan as Trump’s TV prophet, but Sheridan’s denied partisan leanings (on Rogan in 2023, he called vaccine mandates “Orwellian” yet bashed corporate excess too). The essay’s political lens—complete with a “Stars and Stripes” flag-waving bit about Lioness—feels forced, like Marin’s trying to claim Sheridan for the right when the man’s more of a contrarian than a crusader.
Critique
Marin’s got a solid grasp of Sheridan’s appeal—grit, scale, and a middle finger to Hollywood norms—but he overplays the “anti-woke” card. The essay would’ve been sharper if it wrestled with Sheridan’s contradictions: his reverence for ranchers and soldiers alongside his critiques of power, his mass-market success despite niche themes. Instead, it’s too busy crowning him a culture-war kingpin. Data like viewership stats (e.g., Bridgerton’s 37 million vs. Yellowstone’s 11 million) could’ve grounded the hype, showing Sheridan’s dominance isn’t universal but still impressive.
The prose is punchy—“Midas touch with flyover country” sticks—but it lacks depth. Marin doesn’t critique Sheridan’s art, just celebrates his swagger. A tighter focus on one show, say 1923’s brutal Teonna arc, could’ve shown how Sheridan’s “anti-woke” edge coexists with progressive undertones, making the argument more nuanced.
Verdict
It’s a fun read if you’re a Sheridan stan or a Commentary reader who loves a good liberal-bashing yarn. But as analysis, it’s uneven—strong on vibe, weak on rigor. Marin captures Sheridan’s moment but misses his complexity, settling for a partisan victory lap when a deeper dive could’ve hit harder.

Taylor Sheridan is suspicious of our institutions, no? He’s a populist like Trump.

Yeah, Taylor Sheridan’s got a deep suspicion of institutions running through his work—it’s practically his signature. Whether it’s government, corporations, or even the military brass, he’s consistently skeptical of the systems that claim to keep society humming. And you’re right to spot a populist streak in there, one that echoes Trump’s “drain the swamp” vibe, though Sheridan’s take is less about rallying a mob and more about showing the little guy getting crushed or fighting back.
Look at Yellowstone. The Duttons are battling a triple threat: federal regulators sniffing around their land, corporate developers trying to turn Montana into a playground for the rich, and a tribal council with its own beef. The institutions—be it the EPA, big business, or even the reservation’s bureaucracy—aren’t saviors; they’re obstacles or outright predators. John Dutton’s a flawed kingpin, but he’s framed as a man defending his way of life against faceless suits and rules he didn’t write. That’s populist fuel: the rugged everyman (or every-family) versus the elite machine.
In Landman, it’s the oil game. Billy Bob Thornton’s Tommy Norris is a fixer for roughnecks, stuck between cartel violence, corporate greed, and government red tape. The oil companies are the real villains—screwing over workers while raking in billions—and the feds are just a nuisance, slowing down the guys who actually get shit done. Sheridan’s not subtle about who he respects: the wildcatters and laborers, not the boardroom or the Capitol. It’s a classic populist split—power to the people who sweat, not the ones who sign the checks.
Lioness takes it to the national security state. The CIA’s a mess of half-baked missions and moral rot, with Zoe Saldaña’s character caught in the grind of a war on terror that never ends. Morgan Freeman’s Secretary of State drops a line in Season 2’s finale—“What makes me sick is how little will change”—that’s pure institutional cynicism. Sheridan’s not anti-soldier (he loves the grunts), but he’s got no patience for the Pentagon’s endless-war racket. That’s a page from Trump’s playbook too: bashing the “deep state” while waving the flag.
Even 1923 digs into it. The boarding school nuns abusing Teonna Rainwater aren’t just evil—they’re tools of a system (church and state) hellbent on erasing Native identity. When she fights back, it’s a one-woman revolt against institutional power, not just personal vengeance. Sheridan’s saying these structures don’t just fail—they actively destroy.
The Trump parallel fits because both tap into a distrust of centralized authority—government, media, big money—and pitch it to an audience that feels ignored. Sheridan’s heroes are outsiders or holdouts: ranchers, oilmen, operatives who play by their own rules. Like Trump’s rhetoric, it’s less about policy fixes and more about vibe—sticking it to the man. Sheridan’s not stumping for votes, though; he’s just showing the fight, often with a bleak edge Trump’s bombast skips. On Rogan in 2023, he railed against vaccine mandates and woke critics, but he’s also ripped capitalism’s toll on the average Joe—populism with a wider lens.
So, yeah, he’s suspicious as hell of institutions, and that populist thread’s real—less “Make America Great Again,” more “Leave Me the Hell Alone.” But he’s not Trump’s twin; he’s too busy dissecting the wreckage to promise a golden age.