When Taylor Sheridan burst onto the television and film scene as a writer and director, his works immediately stood out for their blend of gritty realism and mythic grandeur. Sheridan is not just a creator of stories—he is a craftsman of atmosphere, dialogue, and authenticity, deeply rooted in the landscapes and cultures he depicts. While Yellowstone has become his most famous achievement, garnering millions of viewers and redefining the modern Western for television, another project of his recently captured both critical and audience acclaim, earning an impressive 97% approval rating. This achievement has sparked conversations about what makes Sheridan’s more intimate, grounded Westerns stand apart from Yellowstone, which he himself has dismissed as a “horse opera.”
The phrase “horse opera” has long been used to describe melodramatic Westerns that prioritize spectacle, archetypal conflicts, and heightened drama over realism. In Sheridan’s own words, Yellowstone was never intended to be entirely realistic—it is exaggerated, operatic, and deliberately heightened. The Dutton family’s constant battles for land, the betrayals between siblings, the sweeping romance of Beth and Rip, and the almost mythic violence that unfolds on the ranch are all elements of a “nonsense opera,” as Sheridan once called it. But when he steps away from this operatic mode and instead embraces the leaner, rawer storytelling of his film projects, the results can be astonishingly authentic, moving, and critically acclaimed.
The Western that earned him 97% critical approval is a prime example of Sheridan at his best—writing with restraint, focusing on the human cost of violence, and building narratives around character rather than sheer spectacle. Where Yellowstone leans on operatic melodrama, this project emphasizes silence, subtlety, and the quiet devastation of life on the frontier. The difference lies not in subject matter—both works concern land, survival, violence, and the collision between tradition and modernity—but in tone. One is myth-making on a grand scale, the other is a stripped-down portrait of human resilience and moral ambiguity.
Critics and audiences alike have noted that Sheridan’s smaller, more focused Westerns feel like the works that Yellowstone was expected to deliver before it leaned fully into soap opera melodrama. Viewers who come to Yellowstone seeking an authentic examination of ranch life, Western traditions, and moral dilemmas often find themselves swept up instead in its operatic theatrics—backroom deals, constant betrayals, and explosive conflicts that feel more like Shakespeare on horseback than a true slice of life. That is not necessarily a flaw; in fact, it is the key to Yellowstone’s mass popularity. But the contrast with Sheridan’s more critically acclaimed projects reveals just how versatile his storytelling can be.
In the 97% Western, Sheridan trades the grandiose speeches and explosive betrayals of Yellowstone for quiet endurance, moral complexity, and a willingness to dwell in uncomfortable silences. Characters are not archetypes of vengeance or loyalty; they are flawed human beings wrestling with survival, loss, and the burden of choices that can never be undone. The film’s landscapes, too, are not just backdrops for drama but active participants in the story, shaping the characters’ lives with indifference and beauty. This is Sheridan returning to the roots of the genre—where land is harsh, survival is uncertain, and human dignity is tested in the smallest of gestures.
So why does this matter? The contrast between Sheridan’s Yellowstone and his 97% Western reveals the dual impulses in his storytelling. On one side, he embraces the operatic, overblown, soap-like elements that make Yellowstone binge-worthy television. On the other, he is capable of producing works of quiet power that critics hail as masterpieces of modern Western cinema. The former brings in mass audiences, the latter earns critical acclaim, and together they define Sheridan as both a populist entertainer and a serious artist.
It also highlights the expectations audiences bring to his work. When Yellowstone was first announced, many fans anticipated a realistic exploration of ranch life, land disputes, and the politics of modern America’s West. What they got was a sweeping opera of betrayal, romance, and violence. While it delivered entertainment in spades, it left some yearning for the grounded authenticity that Sheridan delivered in his smaller-scale Western projects. That authenticity is what shines through in the 97% film—an exploration of the West that is not about mythic dynasties or operatic showdowns, but about the raw humanity of people caught in impossible situations.
Another key distinction lies in how Sheridan approaches character development. In Yellowstone, characters often embody exaggerated archetypes—Beth as the vengeful firebrand, Rip as the stoic enforcer, John as the iron-willed patriarch. These archetypes serve the operatic tone but sometimes flatten nuance. In contrast, his 97% Western offers characters who are achingly real—people whose flaws, doubts, and silences reveal as much as their actions. These are characters who feel lived-in, shaped by their environment and their choices, rather than by narrative demands. The result is a story that resonates deeply with critics who prize realism and emotional complexity.
The 97% approval also underscores Sheridan’s ability to transcend the Western’s clichés. Too often, the genre has been dismissed as outdated, dominated by dusty shootouts and simplistic morality tales. Sheridan reinvigorates it by focusing on the human cost of violence, the ambiguities of justice, and the relentless march of change across landscapes that once seemed eternal. His critically acclaimed Western embodies this ethos, avoiding the melodramatic traps of the “horse opera” and instead crafting something more akin to a modern tragedy.
At the same time, it would be unfair to pit Sheridan’s projects against one another as though one invalidates the other. Yellowstone’s success lies precisely in its willingness to be operatic, to embrace the “nonsense” that Sheridan himself jokes about. It has become a cultural phenomenon because it delivers both grandeur and melodrama on an epic scale. But Sheridan’s 97% Western proves that beneath the spectacle, he remains a master of grounded, intimate storytelling. He can deliver both the myth and the reality, both the opera and the silence.
Ultimately, Taylor Sheridan’s dual legacy will be defined by this tension between opera and authenticity. Yellowstone will go down as the defining television Western of its era, thrilling audiences with its spectacle, betrayals, and operatic grandeur. But his critically acclaimed 97% Western reminds us that he is also capable of crafting stories that move beyond melodrama, capturing the quiet dignity and crushing weight of life in the West with breathtaking precision. Together, these works showcase a storyteller who understands both the power of myth and the necessity of truth—and who is unafraid to move between them.
In the end, Sheridan may dismiss Yellowstone as a “horse opera,” but he also knows that operas matter—that spectacle has its own kind of truth. And by proving he can deliver both the nonsense opera of television and the grounded realism of film, he cements himself as one of the most important Western storytellers of the modern era.
