Untamed: All that buildup, and then...
Netflix’s wilderness mystery had the depth, the grief, the grit—and then wandered off the trail.
I just finished Untamed, the six-episode Netflix wilderness mystery set in Yosemite, and here’s where I landed. For most of the series, it’s grounded, raw, and emotionally riveting. And then right at the end, it drifts off, as if it forgets what made it good in the first place.
The setup is strong. A woman falls from a cliff in Yosemite, with no identification, no gear, and no explanation. But she’s not just a nameless hiker—she’s Lucy Cook, and her life turns out to be more complex and painful than anyone expected.
Despite being set in Yosemite, the series was shot entirely in British Columbia—Whistler, Port Moody, Mount Seymour, Grace Lake—and honestly, it looks incredible. The landscape is vast and moody, full of silence and weight. If you’ve been to the real Yosemite, you’ll notice the difference, but the vibe still works, and the woods feel like they’re watching.
Enter Special Agent Kyle Turner, played with tightly controlled intensity by Eric Bana. Turner works for the National Park Service, but you know from the first few minutes that this isn’t just another assignment. Years earlier, his son Caleb was murdered in these same woods. That loss still hangs in the air, unspoken but ever-present. When Lucy’s case surfaces, it hits something deep, and he can’t let it go.
What drives Kyle Turner, and who grounds him
What makes the show work isn’t the surface mystery. It’s Turner’s relentless need to understand. Lucy’s life was full of gaps and failures. Systems failed her. People failed her. And Turner is hellbent on filling in every blank—because no one ever filled in the blanks for him.
He’s broken. He’s not okay, but he keeps pushing for answers. He’s not chasing closure—he’s chasing accountability. This is a man who had everything taken from him, and still, somewhere in the wreckage, he wants the world to be right. Not fair, necessarily—just right.
That kind of obsession could have easily tipped into coldness. But the show doesn’t let him spiral alone. It grounds him in two very different but equally compelling women: his ex-wife Jill, and his new assistant, park ranger Naya Vasquez.
Vasquez arrives in Yosemite as a transfer from the LAPD—a beat officer from the city, suddenly dropped into the vast quiet of wilderness. She’s new to this world, but not closed off. If anything, she’s eager to learn. She asks questions, she watches, and she listens. And slowly, over the course of the series, you see her start to change. She learns to ride a horse, and she learns to track. She begins to experience a kind of peace in a place she never expected to feel at home.
But this isn’t just a nature arc. Vasquez has her own private storm. She’s navigating a violent ex, raising a young son, and working a high-stakes case alongside a partner who is grieving and unpredictable. Still, she holds steady. She doesn’t flinch, she doesn’t let Turner spiral unchecked, and she never fades into the background. What grows between them—professional trust, emotional tension, and a quiet, almost protective loyalty—is one of the most grounded dynamics in the show.
And then there’s that scene where Vasquez, crawling through a partially collapsed gold mine tunnel, gets stuck. The flood water is rising, the space is tightening, and panic takes over. She freezes—can’t move, can’t breathe. Turner finds her by following her trail, but he doesn’t physically pull her out. Instead, he talks to her. Gently. Calmly. He tells her to breathe, to focus, to come back to her body. It’s not a dramatic rescue—it’s something quieter and more intimate, and one of the most human moments in the series. It’s not about heroism, but about trust, presence, and the simple power of not being alone in a terrifying place.
Jill, meanwhile, is no less central. She’s remarried now, trying to live a quieter, more stable life—but something between her and Turner remains unfinished. Their scenes crackle with everything unsaid: grief, guilt, blame, maybe still love. And while I won’t spoil what unfolds, the show gives Jill an emotional arc that’s quietly devastating. You see how much she’s holding back—and just how far she was willing to go in the aftermath of their son’s death. The weight of that decision lingers in every scene. She’s pulled taut between restraint and rupture, and you can feel how close she is to letting it all go—not for closure, or peace, but for something far more complicated.
What’s so striking is that these three—Turner, Vasquez, and Jill—aren’t trying to be brave. They’re trying to survive. That’s what makes the show resonate. It isn’t about big speeches or neat resolutions. It’s about people carrying things they shouldn’t have to carry, and occasionally—briefly—being seen by someone else who understands.
There’s a lot to admire in Untamed.
Eric Bana carries the show with a quiet burn. Rosemarie DeWitt, who plays Jill, is unforgettable—grieving, haunted, and holding herself together by sheer will. Lily Santiago adds balance and clarity as Vasquez when the story threatens to tilt too far inward. And while it wasn’t filmed in Yosemite, the setting is stunning and saturated with atmosphere.
The core theme—what happens when people disappear, and who’s left behind to sort through the wreckage—is deeply human. The series had something powerful to say about grief, accountability, and the weight of unfinished stories.
And then the ending loses focus
Turner follows the final threads of Lucy’s life into a remote, off-grid property where she once lived as a child. It’s a grim, forgotten corner of the system. There’s an older woman there—strange, creepy, maybe symbolic—but her presence breaks the tone the show worked so carefully to build. After four episodes of emotional realism, her scenes feel like they belong somewhere else.
Still, Turner uncovers the truth: the abuse Lucy endured in foster care, the identity of her father, and what really happened to her. But those answers arrive too quickly. The emotional pause the story deserved never comes. Everything is resolved—but not quite felt. It’s jarring if you didn’t see it coming (I did).
And then it ends. Turner walks away. He gives his remaining horse to Vasquez, packs up what is left of Caleb’s things, and leaves the park behind.
No spoilers, but his favorite horse—his companion through all of it—is gone. And the show barely acknowledges it. Barely a beat. Just one more quiet grief, folded in and passed over. There’s no reckoning, and no catharsis—just a soft, quiet exit. We’re meant to feel resolution, maybe even healing, but it lands like a whisper.
Untamed was never really about solving the case. It was about the cost of needing the truth. It almost said something extraordinary—and then, just when it mattered most, it went quiet.
But—good news: A second season is already in the works. The word is that it will follow Special Agent Kyle Turner to a new national park, with an entirely new case to solve. So we’ll see where it takes him next—and whether this time, the ending sticks the landing.
Promotional images courtesy of Netflix (via IMDb Press Preview). Used for editorial purposes only.
Photos © Netflix.
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Excellent post! I hope you review more movies!