Taylor Sheridan has built a sprawling television empire on rugged landscapes, brooding patriarchs, and endless blood feuds. From Yellowstone to its numerous prequels and spin-offs, Sheridan’s work is praised for its cinematic quality and unapologetic tone. Yet beneath the grit and grandeur lies a deeply regressive worldview, one that glorifies violence, fetishizes stoic masculinity, and frames modernity as a corrupting force. These stories, while framed as frontier epics, function more as soap operas for aging white men: emotionally overwrought dramas soaked in nostalgia, where guns solve problems, and tradition trumps nuance.

At the heart of Sheridan’s philosophy is a belief in inherited power and property. His characters, particularly John Dutton in Yellowstone, cling to the land like a divine birthright. This is not stewardship in any ecological sense, but a paternalistic claim to dominion. Dutton does not negotiate with change, he bulldozes through it, literally and metaphorically. Critics rightly question the morality of a narrative where indigenous land claims, environmental protections, or economic diversification are cast as existential threats to “the way things have always been.” The series consistently frames progress as villainy, while lionizing those who use violence to resist it.

Sheridan’s work presents the gun as a tool of justice, personal resolve, and even emotional release. Conflicts are rarely resolved through dialogue or diplomacy. Instead, ambushes, shootouts, and extrajudicial killings drive the plot forward. This emphasis on frontier justice may fit the cowboy aesthetic, but in today’s America, riven by mass shootings, militia extremism, and political radicalization, it sends a troubling message. Sheridan’s characters operate outside the law not because they are heroic, but because the narrative rewards them for doing so. The recurring theme is clear: the world is corrupt, so the righteous man must impose his will through force.

What makes this more insidious is how it’s dressed in prestige television aesthetics. The sweeping Montana vistas, the brooding scores, the gravel-voiced monologues, all lend a false depth to what is essentially melodrama. The family betrayals, secret children, faked deaths, and generational curses are not far removed from daytime soap tropes. Yet because the leads are men in cowboy hats instead of suburban women, the genre gets rebranded as “serious.” The truth is, Sheridan’s shows are built on sentimentality and spectacle, not substance.

This formula appeals most strongly to a particular demographic: aging white men who feel alienated by modern culture and politics. Sheridan offers them a mirror, one that reflects strength, clarity, and moral certainty, even when cloaked in violence. It’s a fantasy of relevance in a world that has moved on. The danger is not that these shows are popular, but that they reinforce a worldview where compromise is weakness and empathy is suspect.

In the end, Sheridan’s work is less about the American West than about a fear of losing control. It’s a high-budget, high-caliber soap opera for those yearning for a time when men ruled without question, and when problems could be solved with a bullet and a branding iron.