Revenge stories have long made for natural movie material. But can the pursuit of payback be presented too sympathetically? Many movies,  from Old Boy to even The Princess Bride, and this is to say nothing of classical myths, have suggested that a character’s unquenchable thirst for vengeance can be a bad thing.  Director Sam Raimi’s new desert island thriller, Send Help, seems untroubled by such questions. In the movie, Rachel McAdams plays Linda Liddle, a put-upon office worker with a very sympathetic modern problem: a smarmy, unfair, and all-around bad manager at her office job, Bradley Preston (Dylan O’Brien). By all appearances, a conscientious, careful, and detail-oriented worker at a midlevel corporation of some sort, Liddle seeks professional advancement from management to the executive suite. She is implausibly denied such opportunities in an outrageously over-the-top fashion that would probably result in lawsuits in today’s HR-oriented work culture — yet we are asked to accept it in furtherance of the film’s agenda. Liddle is made the butt of jokes for her appearance, including her sloppy table manners when munching on a tuna-fish sandwich at work. She is said to be the subject of complaints for her odor, and she is cruelly excluded from the staff karaoke night. She is denied credit for a report she labored over by a colleague. Preston treats Liddle with undisguised condescension and scorn. He declines to promote her, is seen shamelessly interviewing a blonde bombshell, and ultimately settles on a former fraternity brother and golfing partner for the role that should be hers. Rachel McAdams and Dylan O’Brien in “Send Help.” (20th Century Studios) Of course, these slights propel the movie forward: the more shabbily Liddle is treated, the more justifiable are her subsequent reprisals. It should matter that she comes across as the target of credible workplace discrimination, not the absurd victim of a wholly unrealistic vendetta. But if Raimi had not made her treatment outlandishly unfair, nothing in the film that follows would make any sense. Raimi, whose previous hits include the Evil Dead series and the Tobey Maguire iteration of the Spider-Man franchise, is a specialist in wildly exaggerated, cartoonish action singularly unsuited for an earnest message movie. Therefore, the filmmaker participates in the uncharitable denigration of Liddle in his film. He clearly regards her as a version of a childless cat lady when he shows her breathlessly stating her hopes for her new job and new life to her pet bird, before they settle in to watch the latest season of Survivor. Liddle’s enthusiasm for that show (and her choice to watch it on her regular television set, rather than a smartphone) is meant to be a sign of her terminal lameness. McAdams is dressed for maximum dowdiness: her green bathrobe, mauve sweatshirt, and the barrettes in her hair are all well chosen, though faintly heartless. Yet by the time the movie reaches its central plot twist, Raimi has left no doubt that Liddle is the character we are meant to sympathize with. When Preston suggests that Liddle tag along on a business trip to Bangkok, she sadly seems to take the opportunity too seriously. “Who else is ready and rarin’ to fly high?” she asks in her typically peppy manner. On the plane, Liddle dutifully pecks out a report even as her colleagues improbably gain access to her cringey homemade audition tape for Survivor and have a good, hearty laugh over it. Just another indignity for our embattled heroine. But the plane is torn to bits by a storm, and Liddle and a badly injured Preston are deposited on what is apparently a desert island. Now the setting becomes less Office Space and more Lord of the Flies. Liddle, with her Survivor skills and gung-ho attitude, turns out to have all the know-how for desert island emergency life. She procures food for Preston, tends to his injuries, and constructs them Cast Away-style shelter. But only on her terms. When he whines, speaks condescendingly, or appears too antsy about being rescued, Liddle makes clear that she is in charge of their marooned existence. There are several practical problems with this development. For starters, if Liddle is sufficiently resourceful to manage life on a desert island, why could she not have summoned the fortitude back home to quit her job and get a better one? Among the examples of her newly revealed skillset is the ease with which she kills, beheads, and cooks a wild boar. “While you were sitting here like a bump on the log,” Liddle says with typical gusto, “little old me was bringing home the bacon.” This might be more effective if the island were visualized a bit more grandly: most of the time, Liddle and Preston seem to be inhabiting a very small parcel of beach, and the wider views of the island reek of CGI, as does the boar. More troublingly, the movie makes a false equation between the offensive but nonlethal tyranny of Preston in the office and the real, growing, despotic madness of Liddle on her island. Liddle takes ruthless delight in exercising power over Preston now that the shoe is on the other foot, berating and belittling him continually. No wrong conceivably committed against Liddle back at the office could justify her choice, on the island, to ignore signs of civilization that might rescue the duo. At one point, she even uses animal venom to drug Preston and engage in an elaborate mock castration. “Don’t mistake my kindness for weakness,” she says. And we never do again. But we are uncertain how we are meant to take Liddle’s increasingly evil acts because the film depicts her so sympathetically as grievously wronged by the bureaucratic put-upons of a bad office and a bad boss. It’s clear the director wants us to think the contemporary, office-based evils done to Liddle justify her revenge in the state of nature she winds up in. RIP UP THE SCRIPT: REVIEW OF ‘THE RIP’ But something is artistically and morally wrong here. Several fellow moviegoers at my multiplex vocally took Preston’s side, the intended villain, because his punishment was so extreme. A better film would scrutinize the toll exacted on Liddle’s soul for her commitment to revenge, or at least make the point that her island-bound meltdown is, at best, an overreaction to her workplace unhappiness. Raimi may accept that Liddle is deranged, but her derangement is depicted as secondary to her righteousness. Send Help too often excuses Liddle’s objectively insane behavior as a sign of spiritual growth — of girl power exacting justice on toxic masculinity, or, at least, toxic obnoxiousness. Some may find that message empowering, or at least entertaining. But it would be negligent not to wonder at what cost. Is there no sin too great to overlook in order to teach the Prestons of the world a lesson? Peter Tonguette is a contributing writer for the Washington Examiner magazine.

It is the rare literary adaptation that replicates not only an author’s characters but the psychological experience of reading him. Such is the achievement of The Night Manager, the second season of which is now streaming on Prime Video after a 10-year hiatus. Watching the 12-episode series, one is alternately charmed, compelled, frustrated, and hopelessly confused. Why’d he do that? How’d they find him there? As with the show, so with John le Carré’s novels. If one isn’t at least slightly perplexed most of the time, one isn’t paying enough attention. The Night Manager tells the story of Jonathan Pine (Tom Hiddleston), a British soldier-turned-hotel clerk thrust into a game of global intrigue. In the first season, set largely in Egypt and Majorca, Pine embedded himself in the coterie of Richard Roper (Hugh Laurie), an international arms dealer of suave malevolence. The latest episodes transplant Pine to Colombia, where awaits a plot so circuitous that many viewers will simply throw up their hands and enjoy the scenery. The basic outline is this: Set up by his Foreign Office handlers in a surveillance unit, Pine happens upon talk that “Richard Roper’s true disciple” is operating in sunny Cartagena. Unable to help himself, Pine ditches his desk job and sets out for the Caribbean coast, determined once again to talk his way into a criminal’s inner circle. His target this time is Teddy Dos Santos (Diego Calva), a man whose villainy extends far beyond running guns. A Colombian Supreme Court justice, an electromagnetic pulse bomb, even regime change: Only our hero can stop the geopolitical disaster that Dos Santos threatens to unleash. Tom Hiddleston and Hugh Laurie in “The Night Manager.” (Des Willie/Prime) Were The Night Manager’s formula any less winning, one might object to the shamelessness with which it has been recycled. As the first season did, the show’s new episodes feature a protagonist so smooth that his entrée into the underworld is the work of minutes. Here, a single set of clay-court tennis does the trick. Like before, Pine’s task is made easier by his adversary’s disloyal girlfriend (Camila Morrone, filling in for the first season’s Elizabeth Debicki). Most pointedly, both seasons place a traitor in the ranks of MI6, the security service frequently at odds with Pine’s International Enforcement Agency (Olivia Colman returns to play the IEA’s no-nonsense head). Le Carré didn’t invent these elements — he merely perfected them. At its best, The Night Manager makes James Bond look like a garish cartoon. It is disappointing, then, to have to report that the show’s new season is a mere shadow of its first. All the stylishness remains, but the sense of play has mostly vanished. One is tempted, surveying the terrain, to blame the writers’ room, if only to protest a clunking bisexuality subplot featuring a visibly squeamish Hiddleston. The truth, however, is that The Night Manager’s greatest asset has always been its casting rather than its scripts. Whereas the first season employed an almost miraculous assemblage of talent, the second’s call sheet is comparatively second-rate. The results of this step-down are apparent in nearly every new scene. Attempting to follow Debicki, former runway model Morrone summons irritation but none of the half-ironic poutiness that made her forerunner so sexy. Droll, campy Tom Hollander has given way to deputies of such anonymity that even their mothers must struggle to keep them straight. As for Laurie, he is quite simply irreplaceable, an actor so accomplished that I can’t spot his tricks despite having watched all 177 episodes of House M.D. I will not let on whether Roper makes an appearance this season after the seeming discovery of his corpse. Suffice it to say, we feel Laurie’s absence keenly when he is not onscreen. Yet there is another reason, too, why The Night Manager’s new run struggles to live up to expectations. In 2016, it was still possible to be surprised by the machinations of the deep state, never mind a century of evidence to the contrary. Ten years later, the notion that a Western government might protect Dos Santos instead of arresting him is old hat. What ought to be a screen-shattering “reveal” is just one more notch on the tally. One wonders, in fact, whether the show’s characters are perhaps too sure of their assorted schemes, a concern that readers of le Carré’s best novels may find difficult to credit. Recall, for instance, Smiley’s diffidence at the end of the Karla trilogy: “‘George, you won,’ said Guillam. … ‘Did I?’ said Smiley. ‘Yes. Yes, well I suppose I did.’” Nothing of the kind plays out in The Night Manager, which gives us figures of such unyielding self-confidence that one might thrill to hear them debating on an Oxford Student Union stage. AT HOME IN WESTEROS Is this a complaint about the TV series or the book? Both, I suppose, though let the record show that the second season outpaces both its predecessor and le Carré’s novel for sheer ideological doggedness. By the fifth episode, we have mostly put together the season’s convoluted plot and are ready for some fireworks. When they come, in a long-awaited showdown between Pine and his enemy, the two men trade political theories rather than blows. “See the chaos and grab your chance.” “Conscience is what makes us human.” Give me, and everyone else watching, a break. Adrift in this sea of certitude is Hiddleston, an otherwise marvelous lead who, one suspects, would far rather be tying a Windsor knot or perfecting his serve. My advice to him and the rest of the team: Ditch the sincerity and turn the fun back up to “10.” Beautiful Monte Carlo, anyone? Graham Hillard is editor at the James G. Martin Center for Academic Renewal and a Washington Examiner magazine contributing writer.

It is a testament to the hilarious strangeness of actress and comedian Catherine O’Hara that she could plausibly portray a suburban mother who, upon embarking on a transcontinental trip, neglects to bring her young son along with the rest of the family. In the 1990 John Hughes-scripted megahit Home Alone, Macaulay Culkin was the featured attraction as the child who fails to join his family on vacation and causes a ruckus on the homestead. At the time, Culkin garnered all the attention, but it was O’Hara who gave the movie much of its humor and all of its heart. By then a well-known comic performer, O’Hara was so believably off-kilter, so plausibly distracted, that the moviegoing public could imagine her neglecting to pack her rambunctious, obnoxious son along with the rest of her possessions. We forgive O’Hara for her lapse in parental oversight in a way we might not a more grounded, naturally maternal actress. A degree of delirium was part of the O’Hara signature. O’Hara, who died on Jan. 30 at age 71, enlivened numerous films and TV shows through her distinctive sense of humor. She seemed unique among her contemporaries in her capacity to authentically channel the weirder sides of human nature. It is difficult to imagine another actress who could bring gravitas to both the part of an ice cream truck proprietress with vigilante instincts in Martin Scorsese’s After Hours (1985) and that of a supercilious urbanite sculptress in Tim Burton’s Beetlejuice (1988). Is it any wonder she could not be trusted to keep Culkin from being left home alone? Catherine O’Hara in 2024. (Scott A Garfitt/Invision/AP) Like Bill Murray, O’Hara offered convincing evidence that to spring from a large family may be a recipe for future comic greatness. Born in Toronto, O’Hara was one of a septet of children, and she was the only one who made comedy her life’s work. Sizing up the opportunities in her home country, she charted a course to the Toronto offshoot of Second City. The comedy troupe soon publicized her antics to the wider public by hiring her to appear on its television iteration, the legendary SCTV, on which she induced laughter from the mid-1970s through the early 80s. Around that time, Hollywood started to seize on her manifold talents. Following a handful of undistinguished Canadian productions, Scorsese cast her in his first real comedy, After Hours, in which Griffin Dunne stars as a mundane worker bee plucked from his natural habitat and dumped into 80s-era SoHo, which, in Scorsese’s vision, was brimming with weirdos. In a cast that included Verna Bloom, Teri Garr, Dick Miller, and Cheech and Chong, O’Hara, as the avenging ice cream truck lady, was perhaps the chief weirdo. O’Hara’s strident oddness was part of the joke in Beetlejuice, in which her character is presented as the opposite of nearly everyone else in the cast: As the sculptress Delia Deetz, she is benignly tolerated by her husband (Jeffrey Jones), treated with contempt by her stepdaughter (Winona Ryder), and royally condescended to by Dick Cavett. In between the extremes of After Hours and Beetlejuice, O’Hara had a slightly more ordinary but no less delightful role as a gossip-prone Washington housewife in the Mike Nichols-Nora Ephron comedy-drama Heartburn (1986), one of the great films about domestic life as it exists inside the Beltway. Her role in Home Alone confirmed that she was among the great featured players of her era. Although she was never asked to carry a movie, she was increasingly relied upon to spice up an ensemble: She was always among the liveliest members of the large casts in such films as The Paper (1994), Tall Tale (1994), and Orange County (2002); in the last, an underrated college comedy, she played yet another lovable but unreliable mother, this time to star Colin Hanks. Along the way, O’Hara was absorbed into the stock company of Christopher Guest, who furnished her with some of her funniest and most eclectic material in Waiting for Guffman (1996), Best in Show (2000), and A Mighty Wind (2003). O’Hara never grimaced at the cringeworthy characters she created under Guest’s game direction; instead, there was an implicit recognition that, in her attraction to eccentrics and losers, she was admitting her closeness to such people. There was nothing snooty about O’Hara’s vision of a character. MICHAEL REAGAN, 1945-2026  Unlike some supporting actors whose popularity peaks at a certain point, O’Hara never ceased to be appealing to casting directors. She made striking impressions in movies as recent as Beetlejuice Beetlejuice (2024), in which she proved the durable daffiness of Deetz, and on shows as well-loved and widely watched as Schitt’s Creek and The Studio. Perhaps confirming her kinship to her characters, her one marriage was to the man who designed the sets for Beetlejuice, Bo Welch. Coming on the heels of the death four months ago of Diane Keaton, who, in some ways, was simply an earlier version of O’Hara, had she attained legitimate stardom and pursued straight dramatic parts, the death of O’Hara has rendered Hollywood a whole lot blander. Peter Tonguette is a contributing writer to the Washington Examiner magazine.

When you watch Melania and her Manolos on the big screen, you will likely feel poor, ugly, and, if you’re also six months pregnant, a little fat. But unlike her husband, who perfected his persona as the everyman’s perception of a rich man into populism, Melania Trump is not accessible. She does not try to be. She does not kick off her stilettos to pretend she loves to live in a palatial kitchen, a la Meghan Markle, nor does she brandish a Princeton degree or freelance as a professor like her predecessors as first lady. Melania, the documentary, is about the wife of the former and future president, who understands that her sole job is to be the wife of the former and future president, and she does it very well. It is a time capsule of one of the most unique moments of a unique woman’s life — Donald Trump’s reelection marked the second time in American history that a president won a second non-consecutive presidential term, and Melania Trump is the first naturalized American citizen to become first lady of the United States — but it is also an almost academic analysis of one of the highest profile and oddly thankless jobs in history. Melania’s production and reception have proven much more polarizing than its content. Purchased by Amazon for $40 million and netting Mrs. Trump a cool $28 million in profit, Melania has grossed nearly $10 million in its first week, shattering expectations and breaking the decadelong record for a non-concert documentary. It also boasts a sky-high 99% rating among general audiences on Rotten Tomatoes and a truly dismal 5% among critics. Slate summed up the chattering class’s grievance that the film “contains nothing: no ideas, no point of view, no tension beyond whether the tailors will be able to properly alter her inauguration turtleneck.” In a New York Times roundtable lambasting the film, Nadja Spiegelman declares the “notable thing about this film is how boring it is.” First Lady Melania Trump arrives for the premiere of her movie “Melania” on Jan. 29 in Washington, D.C. (Allison Robbert/AP) “The only setup for narrative tension is whether the hem of her dress will be perfect by the time the inauguration happens,” says Spiegelman. “And even that setup — which is the setup of so many reality wedding shows, like, Will the invitations be printed on time? — gives us no narrative tension.” The real grievance, methinks, is not with Melania, the person, but with the first lady as a job. From the role’s inception, the job of the first lady has plagued its inhabitants as paradoxical. Martha Washington, who was addressed as the near-noble “Lady Washington,” was equally criticized as a vestige of the monarchical tradition the country had just fought a revolution to escape. The job of the first lady, so far as it exists, is and always has been to hold court, serve as the social glue of the White House, and privately counterbalance a temperamental president but never politically outflank him. Although the official Siena College ranking consistently votes the notoriously political Eleanor Roosevelt as the nation’s best first lady, she’s really the anomaly. The rest of the most favored first ladies by historians are those who were mostly apolitical fashion icons (Jackie O and Michelle Obama) or consummate hostesses who parlayed their social operations into genuine benefit for their husbands (Abigail Adams and Dolley Madison). WHAT HAPPENED WHEN THE DC BUBBLE WENT TO SEE THE MELANIA MOVIE Melania Trump understands that choosing table settings with diplomatically significant countries of origin and making nice with Queen Rania and Brigitte Macron is indeed the job. If Donald’s job is to blow up the status quo in both Washington and the world stage, Melania understands her assignment: to sweeten relations and put the room back in order while looking immaculate doing it. Two-for-the-price-of-one first ladies — the Hillary Clintons and Edith Wilsons who mistake their husband’s political mandate for one of their own — tend to age poorly, even among the embarrassing left-wing groupthink of historians. Melania Trump knows this, and if anything, her refusal to kick off her heels until after 22 hours, loosen her seams, or complain about the ornamental nature of the job is why her haters have resorted to the absurd. Melania, according to the detractors, is too beautiful, immaculately dressed, elegantly comported, strategically silent, and astoundingly apolitical, outside of her laser focus on pet projects like liberating the hundreds of hostages held by Hamas or safeguarding millions of Ukrainian children under siege by Russia. Trump’s only winning card is not to play such a stupid game. The real Melania Trump does not apologize for perfection, because that would simply be inauthentic.

Now that football season is over and we, at least those of us who religiously follow the NFL, have more time to watch other things, the question is, “Well, what should we watch?” For me, the answer is clear: Landman! It’s my favorite current show — it’s basically like what would happen if one of those dysfunctional White Lotus families were transplanted onto a Texas oil field. (Which, for me, means I can’t watch it without a drink — dry January be damned.) For those of you who may have not seen it yet, it stars Billy Bob Thornton as Tommy Norris, a grizzled crisis manager in the Permian Basin who juggles oil rigs, cartel threats, a crabby but wise old father (Sam Elliott, starting in the second season), a wild but loving wife who’s still technically his ex-wife (a terrific Ali Larter), and enough roughneck banter to make you feel like you’re getting immersion lessons in Texas-speak. The show, created by Taylor Sheridan, the same guy behind Yellowstone, dropped on Paramount+ in late 2024 and has already powered through two seasons, with a third on the way. In addition to the high-stakes plotlines and Thornton’s pitch-perfect drawl, Landman also packs a punch that hits home for conservatives. It’s a rare Hollywood production that doesn’t just tolerate red-state values — it celebrates them with the kind of unfiltered authenticity that’s been missing from screens for years. If you’re a conservative who’s tired of being force-fed progressive lectures, or even if you’re on the fence, this show might just win you over. Here’s why. The oil patch as America’s backbone Step into the world of Landman, and you’re immediately immersed in the raw, unforgiving reality of West Texas oil country. Thornton’s Tommy isn’t some corporate suit sipping lattes in a boardroom — he’s out there in the field fixing blowouts, negotiating with landowners, and staring down dangers that could end a man’s life in an instant. The series doesn’t shy away from showing the oil industry as a vital engine of American prosperity, where hard work and ingenuity pull black gold from the earth and fuel the nation. (Andrew Caballero-Reynolds / AFP via Getty Images) One episode opens with a rig explosion that sends workers scrambling, highlighting the peril and precision required in this line of work. Tommy arrives on scene barking orders and piecing together the chaos, all while delivering lines like “getting oil out of the ground is the most dangerous job in the world. We don’t do it ’cause we like it. We do it ’cause we run out of options.” It’s a narrative that resonates deeply with conservatives who see energy independence as a cornerstone of national security and economic strength. Sheridan weaves in stories of roughnecks risking everything for a paycheck, portraying them not as villains polluting the planet but as heroes building legacies for their families. Take the subplot involving Tommy’s son, Cooper, a young aspiring landman fresh out of Texas Tech and eager to prove himself. His arc captures the essence of bootstrapping: starting at the bottom, learning through bruises and blisters, and climbing up through sheer determination. There’s no safety net here, no handouts — just the grind. Cooper earns his place in the business not because of entitlement, though being Tommy’s son doesn’t hurt, but because he puts in the work. And when the show touches on the ripple effects of oil booms — jobs flooding small towns, families thriving amid the boom-bust cycles — it’s a love letter to free enterprise. Sheridan doesn’t stop at glorification — he adds layers of conflict that feel as if they’re pulled from real headlines. Cartel violence spills over the border, forcing Tommy to navigate moral gray areas while protecting his crew. It’s a stark reminder of border security issues, presented without preachiness but with enough edge to make you nod in agreement. The narrative drives home how interconnected energy, economy, and everyday American life truly are, making Landman a compelling case for why conservatives should tune in. Episodes delve into the nitty-gritty of land deals, where Tommy haggles with stubborn ranchers over mineral rights, emphasizing property ownership and the entrepreneurial spirit that built the West. These moments on the show reflect a worldview where private initiative trumps government meddling, a theme that runs like a vein through the entire series. Pushing back against the green machine If there’s one thing that gets conservatives fired up about Landman, it’s the show’s unflinching takedown of environmental overreach. Sheridan laces the dialogue with monologues that skewer renewable energy hype and regulatory red tape, all while keeping the story humming along. In one memorable scene, Tommy schools a naive outsider on wind turbines powering oil rigs: “They use alternative energy. There’s nothing clean about this.” He breaks it down — the diesel burned to build and haul those massive structures, the unreliability when the wind dies down — turning what could be a dry lecture into a gripping exchange. Jacob Lofland as Cooper Norris, Billy Bob Thornton as Tommy Norris and Sam Elliott as T.L. Norris in Landman. (Emerson Miller/Paramount+) If done the wrong way, this could come across as propaganda. But Sheridan is too skilled a storyteller to stoop to that level. He instead weaves these themes into the fabric of the characters’ lives. When federal inspectors show up, they’re portrayed as out-of-touch bureaucrats more interested in paperwork than progress and in virtue-signaling, pie-in-the-sky environmentalism than in providing real, usable energy for real human beings. Tommy’s frustration boils over when he has to explain how even wind turbines rely on oil: “If Exxon thought them f***ing things right there were the future, they would be put all over the goddamn place.” Fans in conservative circles have latched onto these moments, sharing clips on social media with captions like “Taylor Sheridan dropping truth bombs.” Podcast hosts have raved about how the show exposes the hypocrisy of green initiatives and how it satirizes the excesses of radical woke lunacies. Even Thornton, in interviews, has defended the series against political sniping, insisting that it’s not a rah-rah commercial for oil — rather, it’s about showing the human side of the industry. But it’s also true that, in a surprising twist for a major platform show, it does not present fossil fuels as the devil and argues that pursuing “net zero” at all costs ignores the real-world trade-offs. The narrative doesn’t ignore the downsides — worker deaths, environmental spills, corporate greed — but it frames them as challenges to be overcome through innovation and grit. This balanced yet pro-energy stance is one of the reasons why many conservatives have flocked to it, and why many more probably will in the coming seasons. Sheridan expands this stance in later episodes by introducing characters from renewable energy sectors, only to have them confront the limitations of solar or wind in the harsh Texas landscape, where dust storms and vast distances make alternatives less viable. These plot points illustrate how the show subtly questions the feasibility of rapidly transitioning away from oil, and what such a transition would do to jobs in red states. Rugged men and traditional ties At its core, Landman is a celebration of a kind of masculinity that’s as tough as a drill bit. Thornton’s Tommy embodies the archetype of the battle-scarred oilman who’s as quick with a fist or a quip and who’s even more fiercely protective of his kin. The show revels in scenes of men hammering pipes, facing down threats, and solving problems with callused hands rather than committee meetings. It’s a throwback to an era when TV heroes were doers, not brooders. It rejects the emasculated male tropes that dominate modern media. Michelle Randolph as Ainsley Norris and Ali Larter as Angela Norris in Landman. (Emerson Miller/Paramount+) But it’s not just brawn — it’s brains wrapped in bravado. Tommy’s monologues on fatherhood hit hard, like when he advises his son on the rig: “You think life’s fair? It’s not. But you show up, you fight, and you provide.” Tommy embodies personal responsibility and family leadership, ideals he’s trying, with occasional success, to pass down to his son. Women in the show, while strong, often play supporting roles that reinforce traditional dynamics — nurturing, challenging, but ultimately aligned with the men’s missions. Tommy’s ex-wife/wife, Angela — her murky status supplies one of the show’s plotlines, plus running jokes — played by Ali Larter, is the dictionary definition of a drama queen but is also Tommy’s grounding force, as well as the show’s comic relief. Critics from the Left have called Landman a conservative male fantasy, but it’s really just a realistic portrayal of blue-collar life — something which mainstream Hollywood entertainment tends to lack. The show is entertaining because it’s dramatic and often riotously funny, but it’s also entertaining because it’s relatable: fistfights settle scores, loyalty binds crews, and wisdom comes from experience, not degrees. For those of us who are weary of shows that prioritize diversity quotas over storytelling, Landman feels like a victory lap. Speaking of that humor, Sheridan sprinkles in just enough to keep the show light. One Tommy and Angela scene that involves an omelette had me laughing so hard I was worried I was going to spill my drink. Yet beneath the laughs is a narrative drive that champions self-reliance over systemic fixes. The ensemble cast adds depth, with characters such as Jon Hamm’s oil tycoon Monty Miller representing the cutthroat side of capitalism. Yet even Monty espouses values of risk-taking and reward. Other subplots explore intergenerational tensions, where older roughnecks mentor the young, passing down not just skills but a code of honor that emphasizes resilience and family bonds over fleeting trends. A Counterpunch to Hollywood’s Elite What makes Landman stand out in the current TV landscape is its role as a cultural counterweight. In an industry dominated by progressive narratives, Sheridan crafts stories that amplify rural, working-class voices without condescension. Episodes tackle corporate overreach and Native American displacement, but from a perspective that questions big government and celebrates individual agency. It’s why outlets such as the Texas Public Policy Foundation have hosted discussions on whether it’s “conservative TV done right.” You don’t need to be a Republican to enjoy Landman. My mom, a lifelong liberal Democrat, loves the show just as much as I do. But for conservatives, Landman is special — it’s proof that entertainment can thrive without woke checkboxes. Social media buzzes with posts such as, “Finally, a show that sticks it to liberals,” highlighting scenes that mock college woke culture and environmental extremism. Thornton’s performance, and the show’s pitch-perfect writing, anchors it all, blending grit, vulnerability, and some of the best lines for a leading-man TV character since Don Draper on Mad Men. If you haven’t jumped on board yet, you’re missing out on a series that mirrors conservative values while delivering winning humor and top-tier drama. It’s not preachy — it’s just real. Snubbed in the spotlight Despite it clearly being one of the best, if not the best, shows going, Landman has gotten snubbed by all the major award shows outside of one Golden Globe nomination and two SAG, now known as “Actor Awards,” nominations. Thornton earned a Golden Globe nod for best actor in a drama series for the first season 1, but was snubbed for the second, while the series picked up SAG nominations for outstanding performance by an ensemble in a drama series and outstanding action performance by a stunt ensemble in a television series. There were also Critics’ Choice and Satellite recognitions, but the big one, the Emmys, passed it over entirely. It’s beyond me how Thornton hasn’t been nominated for an Emmy for it — his portrayal of Tommy is a masterclass in straight-man humor and understated intensity. JEW HATED, A WOKEN MONSTER  Thornton himself has speculated that politics may have played a role in these snubs, with some assuming that Sheridan is “right-wing” and thereby giving themselves an excuse to dismiss his work. Sheridan has pushed back, insisting that his shows explore complex themes such as greed and gentrification without an agenda. Yet the snubs sting, especially as Landman racks up ratings and renewals. This oversight highlights a broader bias in awards circuits, where the few shows that actually do lean conservative often get sidelined in favor of more progressive fare. I would argue that the series’ craftsmanship, from its stunning cinematography that captures the stark beauty of the oil fields to its sharp scripting, deserves recognition regardless of its perceived politics. In any case, it’s the best thing on television right now, at least until The White Lotus comes back, and it’s not even close. Pour a drink, fire up Paramount+, and see for yourself why this Texas tale is drilling straight into the heart of America. Daniel Ross Goodman is a Washington Examiner contributing writer and the Allen and Joan Bildner Visiting Scholar at Rutgers University. Find him on X @DanRossGoodman.

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Missing his chance. The post David Bowie never got to witness the Sex Pistols live: “I liked the guys a lot” first appeared on Far Out Magazine.