‘Chequebook of Mormon’ — American Primeval (Netflix) Review

[This review originally submitted for the Observer / Anthony Burgess Prize for Arts Journalism, 2025]

The dark pines of The Revenant, enticingly lit by natural winter sunlight, have a lot to answer for when it comes to this genre; while the sweeping mountain vistas that permeate the establishing shots of American Primeval are clear homage to the 2015 epic, Netflix’s latest offering brings enough to the table to justify more than the odd nod to Iñárritu’s magical-realist Western.

Set amidst the skirmishes of the Utah, or ‘Mormon’, War, Primeval examines a rarely told chapter of America’s tumultuous formation, an arrowtip forged in the heat of religious fury and tempered in the blood of its native population. It follows a cast of varying originality, including Sara Rowell (Betty Gilspin), a fugitive on the run with her young son; Abish (Saura Lightfoot-Leon), a Mormon bride turned Shoshone warrior-woman; her husband, Jacob (Dane DeHaan), who survives a brutal scalping by his own people; and Governor Brigham Young (Kim Coates), the nefarious leader of the region’s Church of Latter Day Saints, utilising his militia and seemingly bottomless funds to hold sway. The multiple character arcs and interwoven plotlines are elegantly handled, each tremor of the complex web of betrayals and alliances felt in other strands of the narrative.

Taylor Kitsch gives the performance of his career as Shoshone-raised mountainman Isaac Reed; he disappears beneath both the grizzled beard and — during one sombre exchange, during which he is almost genuinely unrecognisable — the crushing weight of loss. Shawnee Pourier wrenches heartstrings as the mute Two Moons: her wordless exchanges with Gilspin’s Sara range from wry awareness to feminine solidarity. Meanwhile, DeHaan’s valiant efforts to portray Jacob’s mental decline reach the kind of crowbarred conclusion that leaves you wondering what changed from episode one to six.

Primeval’s most poorly-conceived scenes are the only stone in the horse’s hoof, somewhat hobbling the show. A pack of wolves tearing through the planks of a cabin to reach two of our heroes (while their horses stand outside, swishing their tails calmly, one can only assume) is more reminiscent of zombie flicks than anything based in nature, which feels wrong when the cinematography is so often elevated by careful consideration of environmental beauty. Many of the frequent deaths see two specific characters happening to meet above all odds, and can feel a little like trying to tie a bow on top of an overstuffed box: much of the satisfaction has already spilled out in the excitement and intrigue of preceding episodes.

That sentiment extends to the finale overall. The climax sees the now apparently capable Sara standing bafflingly frozen, ignoring the revolver hanging on her saddle, as Reed rides in to save the day, resulting in him receiving a mortal wound. Eerily echoing our protagonists’ journey across the country, after a compelling run Primeval falters at the final hurdle before a satisfying, well-earned payoff.

I did have to rush to internet forums to confirm that a slowed, sombre instrumental of This Land is My Land was indeed playing over the closing shots, like one of those awful ‘Epic Orchestral Cover’ remixes of pop songs. Artistic decisions like this feel hubristic, as if the creators gave in to the all-too-avoidable temptation of forbidden fruit.

For me, however, there is one shot in the show which stood towering over the rest (and that irritatingly contrived ending), stark and beautiful in its simplicity and weight. It redeemed the whole narrative so elegantly that I feel compelled to analyse it in full. We pan slowly through the night past a ring of Shoshone tipis, a single campfire burning in the centre. The black prairie stretches to the horizon, where, barely noticeable at first, a star, or perhaps a far-off dwelling, flickers. But this light is soon joined by others, and your focus is drawn inexorably towards them as it becomes clear that they are approaching. It is revealed in the next shot that these lights are the torches of a thunderous Mormon mob, the riders’ faces obscured by frightful burlap hoods.

But press pause at an opportune moment, and you will see four distinct pairs of lights in the distance. Putting on my ‘Death of the Author’ cap (although one hopes for the showrunners’ sakes that they created such a competent piece of symbolism intentionally), I see this shot as the microcosm of American Primeval’s greatest strengths. Calling to mind the chilling imagery of the opening chapters to Jack London’s White Fang, these pinpricks of light are the glowing eyes of the wolves of Manifest Destiny, winking in the dark around the last dying fires of indigenous rights; circling, hungry, and closing fast.

American Primeval is a round or two short of a full cylinder, but damn, does it kick like a mule where it counts.

Overall: ☆ 3.5/5