Despite being an openly alpha-male, pre- # MeToo series, Landman began with real dramatic potential. Still, the formula of “24 hours in the life of Tommy Norris” quickly turned into a loop of the same conflicts, clichés, and offensive moments. I’ll commit to finishing the season, but I have no stomach left to recap a third one. It’s very bad. Let’s go.

Episode 9 of Landman’s second season opens in its usual state of agitation: phone calls, farewells, important decisions on the horizon. The offshore drilling project finally gets underway, and Nate and Tommy spend the day coordinating details. In parallel, Rebecca tries to fix what nearly collapsed with Charles: she goes to his house, apologizes, and admits she is lonely and in love. A few turbulent flights do that, after all. Or maybe it’s the loneliness of the job: you can take your pick. Either way, she remains irritating: alone or accompanied.

The new couple knows they disagree on essential points — and that he will be at sea for six months — yet they decide to persist.

So far, everything sounds like preparation for a turning point. What follows, however, is a curious episode: full of events, but surprisingly poor in actual dramatic progression.

Cooper takes charge and ignores the warnings.

Meanwhile, Cooper heads out with Boss and the rest of the crew to decide where the next drill should go. The boss disagrees with the choice, warns about the risks, but Cooper lays it down: the operation is his now. The team obeys. The gesture matters because it marks a shift in position — Cooper stops being a promise and starts acting like a leader. But, dramatically, the series does not explore the weight of that decision. It happens, it is carried out… and the episode moves on.

Angela, Ainsley, and the subplot that drains the episode

After a long goodbye with Angela, Ainsley arrives at the cheerleading camp dorm. This is where Taylor Sheridan takes the opportunity to dump structural machismo onto the screen and, even more, to ridicule politically correct culture. Even if he may have a point here and there, it is written so heavy-handedly that it only irritates, on both sides.

Of course, Ainsley’s new roommate would be “a problem.” Paigyn uses they/them pronouns, is vegan, has a pet ferret, and the coexistence quickly unravels. Spoiled and whiny, Ainsley calls her mother in tears. Because if Tommy is the landman of masculinity, Angela is the fixer of the outside world. She shows up and finds a solution that preserves her daughter exactly as she is: she decides to move the entire squad into a new apartment.

The two characters who melt the tough-guy Tommy Norris only waste our time here, occupying half of a penultimate episode when nothing in Ainsley’s universe is relevant to oil, traffickers, or mortal risk. It is always and only a side arc, with no real consequences for the main story.

T.L. and Cheyenne: intimacy without dramatic function

Back at the house, Cheyenne shows up for T.L.’s hydrotherapy session. Later, she reveals that her real name is Penny, and the two talk about dreams and plans. The scene works in isolation, but not here. In episode 9, when the pace should be accelerating, this kind of pause only reinforces the sense of narrative drift. Every time Sam Elliott appears, it seems to be an excuse to explore his gravelly voice. And I’m quite sure Tommy has no idea he may have hired his own future stepmother to “save” his dad.

Cami fires Tommy

The story finally reconnects with its dramatic core on the drilling platform. The launch of the equipment is treated as an event: there is celebration, expectation, and a sense of high-stakes betting. For Cami, if they are going to take a risk of this magnitude, they might as well embrace it fully.

Alone with Tommy, she articulates what had already been implied: the business gives her a “rush,” an adrenaline high she now wants to pursue without restraint. Tommy, by contrast, knows that feeling and nearly lost everything because of it. That is why he is vigilant, cautious, and resistant to euphoria. This difference in vision does not end in debate. It ends in dismissal.

Cami fires Tommy for being risk-averse. Exactly as Dan had not only predicted, but warned. The impact of the scene is real: the character who functioned as the project’s critical conscience is removed from the equation at the most sensitive moment. Dramatically, it is the strongest decision of the episode, and the one that should radiate consequences across the entire narrative.

Violence at the bar: the siren that closes the chapter

In the final moments, the series returns to physical threat. Johnny attacks Ariana behind the bar. Cooper arrives, understands what is happening, and responds with extreme violence, beating the aggressor nearly to death. It is a brutal moment, stripped of any heroic gloss: the kind of scene that does not ask for applause, but for judgment.

It works as a cliffhanger, but also as a thematic summary: when structures fail, response becomes instinct. Justice blurs into revenge. “Protection” turns into excess. As the siren approaches, we are left wondering whether we even want Cooper to avoid jail. At the very least, it would mean two fewer irritating characters on screen.

And here lies the paradox of “Plans, Tears and Sirens.” There is enough dramatic material for a great chapter: Tommy’s exit, the beginning of the offshore operation, Cooper’s assertion of authority, the violence against Ariana. Yet half the episode is consumed by subplots with little narrative impact.

It is a shame. Landman arrived with shine, ambition, and a universe rich in conflict. One final episode remains before the season concludes. Closing these hollow arcs will be a challenge, even more so, recovering the intensity the series once promised. From what we have seen so far, it is not impossible. But it will require more than plans, tears, and sirens. It will require focus.