The Madison

The Madison is likely to go down as an oddity in Sheridan's body of work — a smaller-scale show where he tried something different and got out of his comfort zone. (Who would have ever thought Sheridan would write something set in New York City?) But the thing about experiments is that they don't always work. And The Madison could have spent more time in the lab before being released into the wild.

It’s rare to see something on TV that’s a mix of Nicholas Sparks, A River Runs Through It, Virgin River, and Green Acres. But the shouting, the lectures, the insults? That’s all Sheridan.

Michelle Pfeiffer enters the Taylor Sheridan universe in stellar form even when he sinks her in a Montana vs Manhattan grudge match that’ll bore you breathless.

Essentially a grief-stricken version of Green Acres.

As it stands, I have no idea whether a second season will do away with the New York City stuff and become the show I’m actually curious to keep watching, or if it will continue to be one of the most whiplash-y shows I can remember.

In most respects, the TV mogul’s latest is the same as his prior New West offerings, full of two-dimensional types, clunky dilemmas, and absurd and old-hat urban vs. rural dynamics that were out of date 50 years ago.

It’s an altogether milder kettle of trout. It is, in essence, a Saga cruise in a Stetson; a languid meditation on retirement stuffed with cloying aphorisms and thuddingly simplistic depictions of grief.

Whether in Manhattan or Montana, both places seem to be fictional baloney. Pfeiffer, Russell and the cast do their best, but it’s a challenge to act believable in such an entirely rigged reality.

The show has interesting themes and a powerhouse performance from Michelle Pfeiffer. Unfortunately, it’s rather thin on story, relying more on stunning landscape shots and dramatic music than dynamic dialogue and narrative.