Taylor Sheridan’s New Show Is Basically ‘Trad Wife’ Porn For Dudes Who Think Their Lawnmower Is Their Entire Personality
Move over, Yellowstone. Pack your bags, 1923. Step aside, Lioness. Your creator, the patron saint of “I’m not a cowboy, but I stayed at a Holiday Inn Express in Montana once,” Taylor Sheridan, has blessed us with yet another television project. And this time, he’s somehow found a way to make the most toxic parts of masculinity even more boring than watching paint dry on a split-rail fence.
I’m talking, of course, about the recently announced “Empire of the Sun,” a new series that—if the early leaks are anything to go by—is going to be a 10-hour-long cinematic ode to the kind of rugged individualism that makes your uncle start every sentence with “Back when men were men…”
Let’s get one thing straight: I don’t hate Taylor Sheridan. I hate what he’s done to American television. The man has single-handedly convinced a generation of suburban dads that they are one bad divorce away from moving to a ranch and whispering to horses about “the land.” You know the type. Guy drives a 2024 F-150 King Ranch that has never seen a dirt road. He wears a Resistol hat to the PTA meeting. He unironically calls his wife “missus” and thinks that owning a Traeger smoker makes him a frontier survivalist.
Sheridan’s entire brand is essentially a $200 million dollar, Paramount+ backed version of that guy’s wet dream. It’s Trad Wife Porn for men. You know how Trad Wife content on TikTok is about a 25-year-old woman in a gingham dress baking sourdough and pretending she’s never heard of the internet? That’s Sheridan’s work, but with more horse shit and gratuitous violence against anyone who isn’t a stoic, white landowner.
Let me break down the formula for you, because it’s more predictable than a Hallmark Christmas movie but with 100% more gun oil.
**Step 1:** Establish that the modern world is weak and effeminate. Phones are bad. Cities are filled with sniveling bureaucrats. The government is the enemy. This isn’t a political take; it’s just lazy writing designed to make the audience feel like they’re in on some secret rebellion against “the system” while they watch the show on their iPad in their climate-controlled basement.
**Step 2:** Introduce a stoic, brooding lead. He talks in grunts. He looks at the horizon like it owes him money. He has a complicated past he won’t talk about, except for the one episode where he monologues for 14 minutes about “a horse I had to put down back in ’03.” His primary emotion is “constipated.”
**Step 3:** The women. Oh boy, the women. In Sheridan’s world, there are two types: the “strong” woman who is just a man with boobs who can also shoot a rifle and chew tobacco, or the “soft” woman who is there to remind the stoic cowboy that he has feelings, right before she gets shot or dies of consumption. We’re not writing characters here, folks. We’re writing archetypes for a D&D campaign called “The Patriarchy Strikes Back.”
**Step 4:** The big speech. Every Sheridan show has a “This is what it means to be a man” speech. It’s usually delivered by a crusty old rancher while he’s branding a calf. The gist is: “The world is soft. You are a ghost. Go chop wood.”
And now we have “Empire of the Sun.” The title alone makes me roll my eyes so hard I can see my own brain. It sounds like a rejected backdrop for a country music video. The early synopsis suggests it’s about a family of cattle ranchers trying to hold onto their land against the encroaching modern world. Groundbreaking. Revolutionary. Never been done before by this exact same creator on this exact same network.
I’m already drafting the inevitable Reddit AITA posts that will spawn from this show.
**AITA for telling my wife that she doesn’t understand the “spiritual bond” between a man and his tractor?**
**AITA for buying a ranch in Wyoming because I saw a show and now I’m mad that the local coffee shop doesn’t sell dip?**
**AITA for expecting my wife to wear prairie dresses and make biscuits from scratch while I look off into the middle distance and sigh heavily?**
The answer is always yes, Carol. YTA.
Look, I get the appeal. I do. We live in a world of chaos. The news is a nightmare. The economy is held together with duct tape and hope. The idea of a simpler life—of watching a sunset over a field you own, of knowing the names of your cattle, of solving problems with a firm handshake and a .45—is seductive. It’s the ultimate escapism.
But Sheridan sells it like a used car salesman with a fake mustache. He wraps it in a flag, plays a sad fiddle song, and tells you that anyone who disagrees with him is a “coastal elite” who doesn’t understand “real America.” It’s a grift. It’s a very well-produced, beautifully shot, superbly acted grift.
The man is a genius, honestly. He’s found a way to monetize the collective midlife crisis of an entire generation. He’s the Dr. Phil of Westerns. He’s the Gwyneth Paltrow of ranching—selling you a lifestyle that is both aspirational and completely unattainable, and making you feel bad for not living it.
So go ahead. Watch “Empire of the Sun.” Enjoy the scenery. Enjoy the hats. Enjoy the slow-motion shots of horses galloping. But just remember: the show is a fantasy. The real Taylor Sheridan is a wealthy Hollywood producer who lives in a mansion, drives a Range Rover, and probably has a very nice Peloton. He doesn’t
Final Thoughts
Taylor Sheridan has proven that the most potent drama isn't found in boardrooms or superhero battles, but in the unforgiving, sprawling landscapes of the American West—a place where broken men and resilient women fight for land, legacy, and a sense of honor that’s long been commodified. Yet, for all his gritty authenticity and sharp dialogue, Sheridan’s empire now risks becoming a victim of its own success; the very franchise machinery that elevated him risks diluting the raw, singular vision that made *Yellowstone* feel like a revelation. Ultimately, he stands as a fascinating contradiction: a Hollywood outsider who mastered the system by selling a hyper-masculine, traditionalist fantasy, while his most compelling work is often about the quiet, doomed struggle to preserve something that can never be truly owned.