Netflix’s Untamed begins not with a whisper, but a scream—one that echoes off the iconic granite walls of Yosemite National Park’s El Capitan. Two climbers, suspended hundreds of feet in the air, suddenly find themselves entangled in a horrifying mystery when a woman’s body plummets past them, tethered to the same climbing line. Her impact snaps one climber free from his hook, but the other clings to the rope, inadvertently saving not just his partner but vital evidence.
The woman is already dead. But how did she die? Suicide seems plausible—until a bullet is discovered lodged in her leg, sparking a criminal investigation that slowly peels back the serene facade of this majestic national park, revealing a web of secrets, grief, and betrayal. So begins Untamed, a six-episode thriller that thrives on character depth and atmospheric tension, even as its plot gradually descends into convoluted territory.
A Rugged Landscape of Grief and Guilt
At the heart of Untamed is National Parks Service Special Agent Kyle Turner, played by Eric Bana in one of his most haunting roles to date. Turner is no stranger to darkness. A former law enforcement officer burdened by personal tragedy, he has become something of a ghost, a man who functions only when on the job and self-medicates with alcohol when off it. His emotional life is a wilderness as wild as the park he patrols—a place where jagged memories cut deep and guilt clings like mist.
Bana’s portrayal is quietly devastating. His Kyle Turner is not a bombastic hero or a swaggering detective, but a broken soul trudging forward through pain. His backstory emerges gradually: years ago, his child was abducted and killed by a predator, an event that fractured his marriage to Jill (Rosemarie DeWitt) and left scars no justice system could mend. DeWitt, too, gives a restrained yet emotionally resonant performance, capturing the quiet devastation of a mother who has learned to carry her sorrow without crumbling under its weight.
Together, Bana and DeWitt create a portrait of a couple bound and broken by grief. Their scenes together are among the series’ most compelling—emotionally raw yet never overwrought. Their shared history isn’t spelled out in exposition dumps but revealed in glances, silences, and the ache in their voices. Untamed is at its most powerful when it lets this pain speak for itself.
Everyone Has Something to Hide
Joining Turner in the investigation is rookie ranger Naya Vasquez (Lily Santiago), a former LAPD officer who arrives in Yosemite hoping for a fresh start. But like everyone else in this series, she carries a past she can’t outrun. Vasquez has fled a violent relationship with her former partner, taking her child and seeking refuge in the wild. Her presence offers a foil to Turner’s haunted stoicism—she’s younger, more idealistic, but also fiercely protective of her own secrets.
Untamed plays like a chessboard full of troubled pawns. No character is a blank slate. Everyone is hiding something, running from something, or trying desperately to atone for past sins. And the script, co-created by Mark L. Smith (known for The Revenant) and Ellie Smith, puts those secrets to good use. As the mystery unfolds, each character’s personal baggage becomes part of the larger narrative, threading emotional stakes into every twist and turn.
This narrative structure works to a point. Early episodes lean into the slow-burn suspense, expertly layering personal trauma with procedural beats. There’s a constant sense of something lurking beneath the surface—both in the characters and the park itself. But as the series progresses, the plot begins to wobble under its own ambition.
A Labyrinth of Plotlines
What starts as a murder mystery soon balloons into a sprawling investigation that touches on drug trafficking, domestic abuse, government coverups, and long-buried secrets. As Turner digs deeper into the dead woman’s story, he uncovers ties to the park’s Wildlife Management Officer, Shane Maguire (Wilson Bethel), a shady figure from his own past. There are whispers of corruption, a growing trail of bodies, and hints that the National Parks Service itself may be complicit in a much larger crime.
Alongside Turner stands Chief Ranger Paul Souter (played with grizzled gravitas by Sam Neill), whose loyalty masks a complex relationship with authority and order. But even he can’t shield Turner from the mounting dangers. Enemies appear in unlikely places, including from within Vasquez’s own history. Her abusive ex-partner isn’t content to stay in the past—and his reemergence adds another layer of tension to an already overwrought plot.
As the show barrels toward its climax, the threads begin to tangle. There are too many moving parts, too many characters with overlapping traumas, and too many twists vying for attention. It’s a classic case of overreach: a series that begins with elegant simplicity and ends in a flurry of chaos. The finale, in particular, leans hard on melodramatic rescues and reveals that don’t quite land emotionally or thematically.
One twist, in particular, feels like a betrayal of the show’s earlier subtlety—a desperate play for shock that undercuts the grounded character work the series had so carefully built.
Beauty and Danger in the Natural World
Despite these narrative missteps, Untamed never loses its sense of place. The show’s setting—Yosemite National Park—is not just a backdrop but a character in its own right. Smith, who previously crafted icy wilderness drama in The Revenant, brings a similar reverence for landscape here. The park is depicted in all its rugged majesty: towering cliffs, shadowy forests, tranquil lakes that conceal hidden truths.
There’s a primal power in the way nature is used throughout the series. The environment reflects the emotional landscape of its characters—wild, unpredictable, occasionally deadly. It’s a sanctuary and a trap, a place where people come to disappear, both from society and from themselves. This use of setting as emotional metaphor is one of Untamed’s strongest features.
From sun-dappled trails to storm-lashed mountainsides, every frame is rich with tension and visual poetry. The cinematography captures both the allure and the menace of this untamed world. It’s a reminder that beauty can be deceptive, and that danger often hides in plain sight.
Casting That Elevates the Material
Ultimately, what elevates Untamed beyond its increasingly tangled plotlines is its ensemble cast. Bana and DeWitt are the emotional anchors, but the supporting players add texture and credibility throughout. Lily Santiago brings nuance and grit to Vasquez, imbuing the character with both vulnerability and steel. Sam Neill is quietly commanding, his presence lending weight to scenes that might otherwise drift into cliché.
Even Wilson Bethel, playing a morally murky wildlife officer, avoids caricature. His Shane Maguire is both sympathetic and menacing—a man shaped by the same unforgiving world as Turner, but who made different choices. These performances keep the viewer invested, even when the script falters.
In fact, one of the show’s underlying themes seems to be that the past is never truly buried—it waits for the right moment to claw its way back to the surface. In Untamed, this theme is embodied not just in its narrative, but in its performances. Every character wears their history on their face, in their posture, in the things left unsaid.
A Familiar But Compelling Package
There’s no denying that Untamed belongs to a well-worn genre. The streaming landscape is filled with crime thrillers built around mysterious deaths, troubled detectives, and scenic settings that turn ominous by nightfall. And yes, Untamed often falls into familiar rhythms: the brooding male lead with a tragic past, the rookie partner with secrets of her own, the corrupt officials, the sudden twist just before the credits roll.
But even within this crowded field, Untamed carves out a small space for itself thanks to its emotional sincerity. It doesn’t reinvent the genre, but it respects it. It understands that mystery only works if we care about the people involved—and thanks to its excellent cast, we do.
Still, one can’t help but wonder if the Netflix algorithm will doom Untamed to quick obscurity. Shows like this often debut with little fanfare and vanish just as quickly, lost in the endless scroll of content. It’s unfortunate, because there is real craft here—real heart beneath the Hollywood machinery.
Final Thoughts
Untamed is a reminder of how deeply human stories can still thrive in genre television. It doesn’t always hit its marks. Its plotting grows increasingly messy, and its final episode falters under the weight of too many ideas. But it succeeds in capturing something essential: the way trauma reshapes people, how grief can both bind and break relationships, and how the wilderness—both literal and emotional—can be a place of healing or destruction.
You may not remember every beat of the mystery, but you’ll remember the way Bana and DeWitt look at each other—the sorrow in their eyes, the history in their silences. You’ll remember the stillness before the storm, the way Yosemite stands in quiet judgment over the human drama unfolding in its shadow.
And perhaps most of all, you’ll be reminded that even in stories of murder, secrets, and despair, it’s not the plot that lingers—it’s the people.
