Alright, settle down, you absolute degenerates. I know you’ve been mainlining reruns of *The Cowboy Channel* waiting for this, so let’s cut the horseshit and talk about the second season of the *Yellowstone* prequel, *1923*. Or as I like to call it, *Depression: The Musical*, but with more dysentery and sheep-shagging.
Look, I get it. The first season of this show was basically Taylor Sheridan’s love letter to himself, where he reminded us that men are men, women are strong but sad, and the weather in Montana is the real main character. It was grim, it was bloody, and it had Harrison Ford looking like he’d rather be back in a galaxy far, far away than dealing with this livestock melodrama. But we watched it. Why? Because we’re masochists who love seeing rich people suffer, and also because Helen Mirren can make reading a grocery list sound like a Shakespearean tragedy.
Now, season two drops, and Sheridan decided to crank the misery dial past eleven, snapped it off, and threw it into a river. This isn’t just a show anymore; it’s a cinematic colonoscopy of the American soul. The first episode alone felt like watching a two-hour-long panic attack set against the most beautiful scenery the National Parks Service has to offer.
Let’s talk about the plot, which is somehow both everywhere and nowhere at once. We’ve got Spencer Dutton (Brandon Sklenar), the PTSD-riddled lion hunter who is still trying to get his sorry ass back to Montana, but apparently, the only way to travel in the 1920s is to take the scenic route through every war-torn hellhole on the planet. It’s like Sheridan is trying to set a Guinness World Record for "longest commute home." Bro, just get on a train. I know it’s the Depression era, but come on. The man is literally fighting pirates in the Pacific in one scene and then getting into a bar fight in some South American shithole the next. It’s starting to feel less like a Western and more like a fucked-up version of *The Amazing Race* where the prize is a ranch that’s constantly being attacked by a coalition of weasels, bankers, and a scary-ass priest who looks like he bathes in the blood of orphans.
Speaking of the ranch, the home front is an absolute clown show. Harrison Ford’s Jacob Dutton is laid up, looking like he got hit by a truck after getting shot by about forty dudes in the season one finale. He’s basically running the ranch from his bed, which is more responsibility than most of us have ever had, but he’s doing it with the energy of a man who just wants to take a nap for the next fifty years. Meanwhile, Helen Mirren’s Cara is out here turning into a female John Wick. She’s threatening to scalp people with a butter knife and eviscerating dudes with her stare alone. You know that one rich aunt who gets a bit too drunk on Thanksgiving and starts talking about her divorce? Cara is that, but she’s also packing a revolver and has zero fucks left to give. It’s riveting, but also a little terrifying. I wouldn't want to be on her bad side, mostly because she’d probably write me a strongly worded letter that would give me paper cuts so deep I’d need stitches.
But the real villain this season? It’s not Whitfield, the millionaire sadist who’s trying to buy the land for a hunting lodge. No, that guy is too cartoonishly evil, like a Disney villain who just discovered capitalism. The real enemy is the show’s pacing. Holy shit, does this thing drag. We get it, times are tough. The sheep are dying. The cattle are sad. It’s the Great Depression, you absolute doughboys, stop whining and go churn some butter. Sheridan seems to think that if he holds a shot of a mountain for six minutes, it adds gravitas. No, Taylor, it just makes me realize I need to pee.
There’s a subplot involving a young woman getting sent to a Catholic school that is basically a jail for horny teenagers, and it’s so bleak it makes the actual jail scenes in *Oz* look like a summer camp. The head nun is played by someone who clearly ate a bowl of nails for breakfast, and every scene with her feels like a horror movie where the only escape is a slow, painful death. It’s heavy-handed, on-the-nose, and about as subtle as a brick to the face. We get it, organized religion is bad and abuses women. Can we get back to the part where Harrison Ford yells at a sheepherder? Please?
And don’t even get me started on the history. The show is trying to cram in everything: the Dust Bowl, the stock market crash, the KKK, the start of the New Deal, and the invention of the fucking zipper. It’s like Sheridan is frantically Googling "major events of 1923" and writing the script in real-time. The result is a historical car crash that is fascinating to look at but makes absolutely no sense. It’s less of a narrative and more of a Wikipedia article that’s been on meth.
Is it a good show? Honestly, I have no idea. It’s a power fantasy for people who think owning land is a personality. It’s a tragedy for people who think the modern world is too soft. It’s a beautifully shot, technically proficient masterpiece that is also, somehow, a total slog. It’s like eating a five-star steak that’s been doused in motor oil. You know it’s quality ingredients, but the end result is just indigestion and regret.
But here’s the thing: I’ll keep watching. We all will. Because there’s a sick part of us that wants to see how much more punishment these fictional ranchers
Final Thoughts
Having watched enough of Dutton Ranch's second season to see the pattern emerge, it's clear the show's greatest strength is also its most frustrating weakness: the family’s relentless, self-inflicted tragedy is starting to feel less like operatic drama and more like a repetitive cycle of stubbornness. While the production values remain top-tier and the performances are as steely as ever, the narrative is coasting on the fumes of past betrayals rather than breaking new ground. Ultimately, this season proves that even the most beautiful ranch can feel like a gilded cage when its patriarch refuses to learn from his own history.