National parks are America’s treasures. Beloved by conservationists, outdoor adventurers, vacationing families, and almost everyone else who identifies as a patriot, they have been celebrated in stunning documentary series that boast narration from Barack Obama (Netflix’s Our Great National Parks) and the imprimatur of Ken Burns, who titled his 12-hour PBS epic The National Parks: America’s Best Idea. They’ve popped up in films as different as Wild, North by Northwest, and E.T. In recent years, their most prominent pop-culture role has probably been as the breathtaking backdrop to Taylor Sheridan’s hit TV Western franchise Yellowstone.
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But rarely have the parks themselves—their vastness, their complexity, the official and unofficial denizens who live and work within them—been as central to a story as Yosemite is to Untamed, a six-episode Netflix crime drama created by Mark L. Smith (American Primeval) and Elle Smith. Almost certainly a product of audiences’ addiction to detective procedurals and streamers’ desperation to find their own Yellowstone, the series is, as written and acted, mediocre. It’s worth watching, though, if you’re fascinated by the inner workings of a place like Yosemite, if you savor the sights and sounds of the wilderness, and if you’re intrigued by the idea that a park might conceal ugliness and corruption even as it showcases the most radiant natural beauty.
Untamed is, in terms of plot, a familiar sort of dead-girl mystery. A pair of climbers scaling the terrifying 90-degree wall of Yosemite’s El Capitan nearly get themselves killed catching, in their ropes, a young woman who plummets off the top of the cliff. But they’re too late to save her life. Though it would be politically expedient to declare the woman’s death a suicide, Agent Kyle Turner (Eric Bana) of the National Parks Service’s Investigative Services Branch—who we know is the genuine article because he rappels down the rock face to examine the still-dangling corpse—is convinced she’s running from someone. With the help of a new ranger, Naya Vasquez (Lily Santiago), who transferred from an urban police force, he investigates. Which isn’t easy, considering how much trouble they’ve run into just trying to identify the body. Other obstacles to uncovering the truth behind Jane Doe’s plunge include Yosemite’s sheer size (Turner notes that it’s about as big as Rhode Island), its dense and often treacherous terrain, and Turner’s own complicated history with the staffers and squatters who populate the park.
There’s nothing inherently wrong with this premise; it’s just fleshed out in the most hackneyed way possible. Turner is the kind of antihero detective we’ve seen a million times before. Sure, he’s a superstar investigator, but he’s also arrogant, dismissive of his inferiors, a problem drinker, and prone to drunk-dialing his ridiculously patient ex-wife, Jill (Rosemarie DeWitt), with whom he shared a very predictable marital trauma. Now Jill is married to a stable dentist (Josh Randall) and pretends to be happy in her new life, though she remains drawn to Turner’s mess. Parenthood is a fraught experience for just about every character, from Sam Neill’s veteran chief ranger, Paul, an avuncular figure who’s endlessly indulgent of his adult daughter, to Vazquez, who is on the run with her 4-year-old son from the boy’s father. Once you grasp that this is a show about the remarkable things parents will do for—and, in some cases, the unthinkable things they will do to—their children, the twist ending won’t come as too much of a surprise.
Better writing and performances could have elevated this material. But, while the Jane Doe plot has its moments, Untamed is yet another crime drama whose world feels too small; the principal players in every big mystery that has rocked the park for decades seem to be, for reasons that don’t entirely make sense, the same. The dialogue vacillates between buddy-cop brusqueness (“That’s the job, Ranger Vazquez,” Turner condescends) and earnest exchanges that suggest the creators don’t trust viewers to pick up on obvious subtext (Paul: “You’ve locked yourself away in this park, Kyle”). Bana lacks the charm to make us care whether Turner solves the case and conquers his demons or falls permanently into an abyss of alcoholism. Few of the other stars seem fully present.DeWitt and Neill are great actors, but their characters keep shifting to accommodate left turns in the story. It’s hard to blame them for their superficial performances.
Still, there are so many middling crime dramas these days that it only takes a single inspired element to separate one of them from the pack. In Untamed, that element is the show’s artful use of Yosemite. Cinematographers Michael McDonough (who worked with filmmaker Debra Granik to capture the Ozarks in Winter’s Bone and Portland’s Forest Park in Leave No Trace) and Brendan Uegama (who nailed the small-town noir of Riverdale and its spinoffs) give us the park’s splendid flaming sunrises and mountaintop vistas, as well as the murk of the deep woods and the peril of rough terrain. The opening scenes at El Capitan are a technical marvel, evoking precisely the mix of wonder and terror you’d imagine those climbers would feel. Equally impressive is the sound. Meaningful distinctions between, for example, the tranquil burbling of a creek and the panicked rush of a waterfall underscore the unpredictability of the wilderness.
All that we see and hear deepens the series’ portrayal of the 750,000-acre park as a place whose idyllic, tourist-friendly surface masks an underworld of dangerous tunnels and criminal enterprises and transient communities that aren’t just the harmless hippies they appear to be. Which only, in the end, feels like more reason to worship the majesty of nature. Forget Turner, Vazquez, Jill, Paul—all egregiously underwritten. Untamed has a far more fascinating and multifaceted lead in Yosemite.