Breaking Down the Twists and Reveals in the Ending of Netflix's 'Untamed'

Time​ Magazine

20-07-2025

Warning: This post contains spoilers for Untamed.
The temptation is strong to classify Untamed, the new series from screenwriter Mark L. Smith and his daughter Elle Smith, as Netflix's answer to Paramount's Yellowstone. In fact, it's not wrong to at least assume as much; when one studio makes a cool $2 billion from their neo-Western surprise smash, a non-zero number of competing studios will inevitably scramble to fund their own.
But if Untamed is a product of the ongoing content arms race between cable networks and streaming services, it is nonetheless a better genetic match to Top of the Lake, Jane Campion's 2013 New Zealand mystery drama, whose skeletal structure reads like the unintended template for television's modern crop of regional detective dramas.
Untamed, like Yellowstone, concerns itself with one of America's best ideas: its national parks. But it's also a trim limited series rooted in the stuff of parenthood, like Top of the Lake—the sins of the father (and the mother, for good measure), self-doubt, overwhelming powerlessness, and lots of grief. No conflict is had between the old ways and the new, so to speak, not even in context with white settlers' theft of Indigenous land. Instead, the show excavates the souls of its co-leads, Kyle Turner (Eric Bana), an Investigative Services Branch (ISB) agent for the National Park Service in Yosemite; and Naya Vasque (Lily Santiago), an L.A. transplant and NPS newbie, assigned to assist Turner in following the threads of a potential murder case in the park.
What they unravel from that skein cuts not only to their cores as parents, but the story's supporting characters' cores, too, from Paul Souter (Sam Neill), Turner's friend, mentor, father figure, and boss as Yosemite's chief ranger, to Jill (Rosemary DeWitt), Turner's ex-wife, who can't resist the gravitational pull of his PTSD. She has her own emotional and moral baggage, too, some that's conventional, and some that's harder to spot, like sunlight glinting off a hunting rifle's scope.
Jill takes the hit…
Likewise, the reveal of one Sean Sanderson's fate lands one episode too late in Untamed to make an impression on the narrative; it's a missed opportunity by the Smiths to lend Jill necessary character depth. Sanderson (Mark Rankin in a walk-on role) went missing in Yosemite about five years ago in the show's timeline, but his name is brought up frequently in its present. His family is filing a wrongful death suit against the park, and their lawyer, Esther Avalos (Nicola Correia-Damude), visits Turner and Jill alike, sniffing around for information about his disappearance.
DeWitt is one of our most casually gifted actors, in that whatever role she plays in whichever medium she chooses, she constitutionally reads as at-ease in her characters; they're lived-in and breathe life through the screen. Jill is no exception. But the guarantee of a good DeWitt performance can't offset Jill's meager profile on the page. She is, like Turner, figuratively haunted by the death of their young son, Caleb (Ezra Wilson), revealed in the series opener, 'A Celestial Event,' to have tragically died prior to Untamed's events–about five years, in fact.
Turner is literally haunted, per his recurring conversations with Caleb; it isn't made explicit whether he's an apparition or just a hallucination, but there is nonetheless a ghostly quality to their dialogue together. In keeping with popular male balms for spiritual suffering, Turner turns to alcohol and functions as a mollusk, socially and professionally; his stoicism is an act, one his peers pick up on, and which some openly deride. 'Christ, here comes Gary Cooper,' grouses Milch (William Smillie) when Turner strides on horseback into the scene of the crime that spurs Untamed's A-plot: the murder of Lucy Cook (Ezra Franky), met in 'A Celestial Event' when she leaps off of El Capitan and into the ropes of two climbers ascending the granite monolith—a plunge she doesn't survive.
The no-nonsense lawman routine is tired, within the text as well as without—if Milch and the rest of the park staff are done with Turner's schtick, then maybe television writ large should be, too—but at least it's normal. Jill, by contrast, responds to Caleb's death another way altogether. It turns out that Sanderson—he of the missing persons case—is Caleb's killer, whose crime was caught after the fact on motion cameras set up by Shane Maguire (Wilson Bethel), Yosemite's Wildlife Management Officer and staff reprobate. Shane intended those cameras to document animal migration patterns; instead, they reflect Milch's words to Vasquez in the second episode, 'Jane Doe,' that when people trek into the wild, they assume no one's around to watch them, 'so they do whatever bad sh-t pops in their head.'
Shane brings this information to Turner and Jill, and offers them revenge in the form of taking out Sanderson. Turner refuses; but Jill accepts. We spend most of the show assuming Turner's change in temperament, following Caleb's death, is the catalyst for his and Jill's divorce. It's a welcome change to the formula that Jill's decision to engage Shane's services is in fact what broke their marriage. If only the Smiths worked that twist into Untamed before the finale. Dropping that grenade on the audience with so little time left to feel the impact does Jill little justice, but DeWitt does, in fairness, invest great pathos in her. As much as it comes as a shock that someone so mild-mannered would turn that dark, the matter-of-factness in DeWitt's delivery reads as confrontational: given the opportunity, would you, fellow parents, make the same choice as her?
…but Souter takes a fall
There is, of course, another twist to accompany Jill's disclosure to her second husband, Scott (Josh Randall), as we are still awaiting resolution in the matter of Lucy Cook's death. After Turner cleverly unlocks Lucy's iPhone by applying formaldehyde to her corpse's cheeks to dupe its facial recognition biometrics, he discovers that Lucy's heretofore anonymous lover, Terces—'secret' spelled backwards—is actually Shane, and based on videos showcasing him abusing her, not to mention his pro-murder worldview, he looks like the culprit responsible for her ultimate plunge off of El Capitan.
But looks are deceiving. Sure, they're not deceiving enough that we feel any kind of pity for Shane when Vasquez gets the drop on him and guns him down, saving Turner's life; unsurprisingly, Turner figures out Shane's involvement in a drug trafficking scheme in Yosemite, moving product in and out of the park through bygone mining tunnels; Shane takes the discovery badly, and nearly kills Turner in a drawn-out hunt over hill and dale. But if Shane is a monster who is guilty in the matter of how Lucy lived, as both her abusive partner and a participant in the drug ring, he is nonetheless innocent in the matter of her death. The real guilty party here is Paul Souter, who also happens to be her biological father, a truth only he and Lucy are privy to.
In an abstract perspective, this makes thematic sense. Untamed is about parenthood on a molecular level: the lengths we'll go to protect our children, and the depths we plumb if we're so unfortunate as to mourn them. Vasquez' character arc involves Michael (JD Pardo), her ex-partner on the force and in life, and their son, Gael (Omi Fitzpatrick-Gonzales), whom she took with her to Yosemite for his safety; in flashbacks, we see Lucy with her mother, Maggie (Sarah Dawn Pledge), in happier times, learning about her Miwok ancestry; Paul looks after his granddaughter, Sadie (Julianna Alarcon), while his other, acknowledged daughter, who isn't seen in the show, struggles with personal demons of her own.
None of this makes the screenwriting decision to put the burden of Lucy's death on Paul any more welcome or tasteful, though. It's another knife in Turner's back when he's just gotten off of bedrest, post-recovery after his grueling fight with Shane; when he connects a few stray dots that lead him to Nevada, where he meets Faith Gibbs (Hilary Jardine), whose parents fostered a slew of kids, including Lucy. Faith recalls Lucy talking about how her father, a policeman, would come for her one day, and arrest the Gibbs, who severely mistreated their various wards. The gears in Turner's head grind along as she dredges up this memory, and he confronts Paul first thing upon returning to Yosemite.
All Paul can do is argue that he only meant the best by whisking her away to the Gibbses, far from her violent stepfather. It's a weak case for the character to make, given the abuse the Gibbses subjected Lucy to, and that when she comes back to the park as an adult to extort Paul, he reacts by accidentally chasing her to her death off of El Capitan–a revelation that feels quite like letting all the air out of a balloon.
…and Turner moves on.
Consequently, that makes a weaker conclusion for the narrative, one the series can only wrap up by having Paul use his pistol on himself and take a tumble into rushing river waters. Worse, that unceremonious and unearned end robs oxygen from Turner's own catharsis, a black flag at Untamed's last lap. Turner is the lead. His growth as a human being is what we're here for. Paul's increasingly bad decisions throw up a smoke screen around that growth, minutes before the story closes the arc of Turner's self-destructive bereavement. The pivot to Paul's complicity is especially frustrating given the wonderful foundation for Turner's ultimate closure laid out by his friend, former colleague, and Miwok community leader, Jay (Raoul Max Trujillo), in a monologue in the fifth episode, 'Terces,' about the connection he feels to his forebears through his connection to Yosemite's land.
'When it's my time to die, I will die here,' Jay says. 'But if I chose to die somewhere else, I would still have my ancestors with me, because the spirits in this valley are within each one of us.' Turner tearfully echoes the sentiment in 'All Trails Lead Here,' during a final farewell with Caleb's visage. 'No matter where I am, or where I go, you'll always be with me,' Turner chokes. When the credits roll, he's on his way out of Yosemite, the site of his anguish, for good, newly at peace and secure with the memories he has of his beloved son.
Untamed incidentally reminds viewers just how vast our country is, at a moment when the world feels smaller than ever–an illusion we perform on ourselves with slavish devotion to our personal devices and social media. Paul's confession and suicide therefore strikes a sour chord on the series' driving motif. Emphasizing the bonds we hold with our loved ones, whether they're with us or not, makes a more fitting ending, for Jill, for Vasquez, and especially for Turner.