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Petroleum and virility: both are frequently unrefined, both are deemed harmful in the present epoch. Consequently, it stands to reason that the pair are intimately connected like a fastener on an oil derrick in “Landman,” the most recent prominent offering from the contemporary Western television visionary Taylor Sheridan, airing on Paramount+. The series revolves around Tommy Norris (Billy Bob Thornton), a hardened and skeptical but ultimately benevolent advisor to Monty Miller (Jon Hamm), a daredevil oil-field magnate. While Sheridan’s extensive “Yellowstone” saga centers on the landed gentry, “Landman” portrays the considerably less alluring realm of an intermediary toiling for the wealthy. Tommy pilots his tan Ford F-350 pickup truck, adorned with Monty’s M-Tex emblem, across the arid, level terrain of the West Texas Permian Basin, known as the Patch. As the titular landman, his duties involve securing oil drilling rights, overseeing crews of roughnecks, and engaging with local governance and law enforcement. As he hustles to resolve a series of emergencies—leaking oil wells, encroaching narcotics cartels, perplexing highway incidents—he emerges as the show’s existentialist protagonist, primarily armed with shrewdness, cigarettes, and Thornton’s biting command of profanity. In “Landman,” petroleum taints the environment just as male chauvinism contaminates the psyche, leading to conflicts, brawls, and fractured families. However, in Sheridan’s depiction, the pollutant also serves as a remedy: petroleum yields affluence, and affluence facilitates escape from the oil fields; masculine display, judiciously applied, begets power over other males, as well as the begrudging regard of certain audacious females who dare to become legal professionals or chief executives.
For a typical discerning-TV viewing demographic, “Landman”’s ideologies are offensive. The series is overtly anti-environmentalist; in one controversial scene from the initial season, Tommy asserts the demonstrably false claim that wind turbines are equally detrimental, if not more so, to the ecosystem than oil wells. The screenwriting liberally employs sexist stereotypes; Tommy’s former spouse, Angela (portrayed by Ali Larter), with whom he rekindles a romance, embodies a kind of conservative Manic Pixie Dream MILF, showcasing her décolletage, engaging in roadside intimacy, and exhibiting erratic behavior when menstruating. (“I need a Midol and a fuckin’ margarita,” she laments in one of the numerous inconsistent one-liners that punctuate the script’s more realistic exchanges.) Nonetheless, some quality of “Landman” has rendered it a surprise success, even among a progressive viewership, particularly with the recent debut of Season 2. The program is discussed gingerly, fearing that one’s enthusiasm might trigger outrage: I’m somewhat . . . into it?? My colleague Inkoo Kang observed in August that its premiere season illustrated “how conservative shows might be a damn good time.”
A component of the allure resides in acquiring a voyeuristic peek into the operations of a specialized sector flush with capital, akin to how viewing “Succession” furnished a behind-the-curtain glimpse of media mergers. We observe the earnings distributions of oil rights, the renovation of antiquated wells, and the lobbying gatherings where affluent owners in cowboy hats strike gentlemen’s agreements. “Landman” draws inspiration from the reported podcast “Boomtown,” whose originator, Christian Wallace, co-created the series, bestowing its depictions of the oil industry with a journalistic edge. The show’s artistic selections further complicate its ostensible zeal for extractive capitalism. Aerial shots showcase desolate landscapes peppered with perpetually rotating pumpjacks silhouetted against twilight haze, evoking an Edward Burtynsky photograph or a Werner Herzog documentary. The music intertwines familiar country anthems with expansive ambient guitar arrangements by Andrew Lockington, reminiscent of the post-rock ensemble Explosions in the Sky. These artistic embellishments serve as a drizzle of gourmet reduction on the plot’s comfort-food essence, blending their palates to the advantage of both.
Ultimately, the series’ triumph may hinge on the charismatic presence of its central figure, who epitomizes the tenor of our era. Thornton, embodying the indebted and inebriated Tommy, dons mournful expressions and appears as jaded with the condition of the globe as the majority of us. Thornton embraces the corporeal realities of advancing middle age to a degree that verges on daring—his complexion pallid, his facial hair unkempt, his well-worn attire practically emanating perspiration, oil, and tobacco vapors through the display. Virtually nothing about him is admirable, barring his mindset of endearing resignation. As he bemoans early in Season 2, following his torture and near-fatal encounter with drug traffickers running rampant on Monty’s property, “Life pulled out its big dick and beat me over the head with it.”
The second season commences after Monty’s demise from stress-induced cardiac episodes. His spouse, Cami (Demi Moore, the female persona with the most agency—namely, the greatest wealth), now presides over M-Tex, with Tommy serving as its president. Tommy’s son, Cooper (Jacob Lofland, exhibiting a countenance of delicate sorrow), devoted the inaugural season to laboring on M-Tex rigs and enduring setback after setback, including the passing of his fellow crew members in a well mishap. Now operating as an independent oil prospector, he discovers a potential bonanza. Concurrently, he is navigating a fluctuating relationship with his deceased colleague’s widow (Paulina Chavez) and an inadvertent economic rapport with a cartel chieftain portrayed by Andy Garcia. The opening episodes establish higher stakes and more profound, gradual quandaries compared to those of the freshman season, which frequently adhered to a mishap-of-the-week formula. The script exhibits greater subtlety; there are fewer grievances concerning green technology and more anti-corporatist pronouncements, such as Tommy’s tirades against Kellogg’s breakfast cereal or a roughneck’s preference for homemade venison breakfast tacos over McDonald’s, citing the former as “clean fuel.”
What rescues “Landman” from the utter sensationalism of, for instance, the Netflix series “Hunting Wives,” another illustration of conservative-leaning television, are the mounting indications of plausible inner lives beneath the gendered stereotypes. Tommy and Angela’s post-divorce reconciliation, defying their better judgment, evolves into a font of gratifying stability in Season 2. Angela and the couple’s daughter, Ainsley (Michelle Randolph), have slid into a sort of “Gilmore Girls” maternal buddy-comedy dynamic; in one scene, Angela chaperones Ainsley to a college-admissions meeting where Ainsley delivers an impassioned, uproarious discourse to an astonished administrator regarding the rationale behind permitting cheerleaders to date football players. Texture graces even ancillary characters, including Ellie (portrayed with warmth by Robyn Lively), a waitress at the local haunt, the Patch Café, where each morning marks an early-shift oilman’s happy hour. The facetiousness of the entire undertaking is demonstrated by my favored recurring gag, the frequent, presumably compensated product placement of bottles of Michelob Ultra, an upscale light beer that even the convalescing Tommy consumes copiously. (Dave Infante penned in the beverage publication Vine Pair that the notion of “a bunch of roughnecks and rogues in the Permian Basin prefer a beer known for its low calorie count and high price is hard to accept.” I accept it as magical realism.)
Sheridan’s cowboy-esque depiction of the oil business can still prove challenging for this unpatriotic East Coast progressive to countenance, particularly given that genuine oil enterprises appear to have embraced the show as a public-relations opportunity: for Season 2, the American Petroleum Institute has allegedly procured a seven-figure commercial campaign showcasing “real landmen.” Nonetheless, “Landman” does not function particularly well as propaganda; it does not ignite aspirations of oil extraction any more than “Breaking Bad” stimulated meth dealing. The oil wells generate revenue but also consume lives, and any responsibility on the corporations’ part is obscured with meager settlements and N.D.A.s. The sole victors are those astute enough to divest early and abandon the sector altogether, and no one prevails for an extended duration. As Tommy, our West Texas Sisyphus, articulates from behind the helm of his gas guzzler, “I’m driving to my next calamity.” ♦
Sourse: newyorker.com
