You ever scroll through Netflix and wonder, “How the hell are there this many new shows?” One day, I might pull actual data from What’s on Netflix just to prove I’m not hallucinating. But today’s little gem is The Hunting Wives, a show I hadn’t even heard of — also typical in the nonstop content tsunami.
But I’ll admit it. The description had me intrigued:
“Sophie trades city life for East Texas and falls into a wealthy socialite’s magnetic orbit, where a clique of housewives hide deadly secrets.”
Texas. Rich people. Secrets. Let’s f*cking go.
And it’s based on a book by May Cobb. Did I read it? Absolutely not.
Since I’ve got a mountain of other stuff to watch, I figured this was a perfect Trial by Stream pick. One or two episodes, either I’m in and it goes on my list to review later, or I’m chucking it into the Tap Out Trashbin never to be seen again.
With this one, I was ready for a deliciously trashy binge. Well, holy hell was I wrong.
Let me be clear: I’m not a prude. I’ve watched my share of sleazy soaps, late-night slashers, and even a few vampire shows — begrudgingly, and mostly for research. But this? This crosses into a level of sleaze that made me hit pause and consider staging an exorcism on my TV.
The Hunting Wives S1E1: “Strange and Unfamiliar Places,” actually starts okay. Moody setup, sultry glances, you know the drill.
But then around 13 minutes in, it took a turn — and not in the good soapy kind of way.
Margo checks in on Brad, the teenage son of her friend (yeah, let that sink in), who’s in someone’s bedroom doing… things… for his girlfriend. And to make matters worse, she’s quoting scripture while he’s putting on a full-blown solo performance. But here’s the worst part: Margo doesn’t walk away and close the door. She stands there and watches. And when Brad notices her in the doorway, he leans into it — hard (pun intended) — like he’s filming his own homemade softcore.
Later, once the girlfriend leaves, Margo and Brad talk in the hallway, and she full-on grabs this kid’s crotch.
This isn’t racy. It’s not provocative. It’s not “pushing boundaries.” It’s gross. This kid isn’t some older bad boy. He’s literally the son of her friend. And the show treats it like it’s just another twisted chapter in a sexy red-state soap.
Nah. Miss me with that. That was my tap-out moment.
Apparently, this is just the tip of the deranged iceberg. It only gets more salacious from there. And not in a “so bad it’s fun” way, but in a “who greenlit this and why are people praising it?” kind of way.
The Hype-o-Licious Hype Machine
Now, if you read the reviews, you’d think this was the guilty obsession of all time:
- Decider calls it “refreshingly brazen.”
- AV Club labels it “this summer’s guiltiest pleasure.”
- Forbes describes it as a “perfectly twisted, sex-fueled binge.”
- Texas Monthly serves up “salacious stew.”
- Paste gives it a thumbs up as “enjoyably soapy.”
- The Daily Beast crowns it the “Red-State Big Little Lies.”
Cool. So basically everyone drank the Kool-Aid.
Reading all these glowing reviews almost made me feel like I was the problem. Like maybe I missed some genius commentary buried under all the sleaze, but I didn’t. It’s not me; it’s the show. And the fact that barely anyone is willing to call it what it is? That’s the real trash.
And why? Because the show checks every box designed to piss off conservatives. It’s political, it’s provocative, and for some critics, that’s apparently enough. Never mind that it’s objectively garbage.
The Verdict
I don’t care about the politics. I just want to be entertained. Give me murder, give me crazy, give me ridiculous drama — but don’t expect me to co-sign a show that feels like softcore incest fanfic with a budget.
There’s good trash (Dallas, Desperate Housewives) and then there’s Radioactive Dumpster Juice. The Hunting Wives is the latter.
To be fair, not everyone is on board:
“Mediocre drivel being pushed down the audience’s throat in the name of art.”
– RogerEbert.com (and bless them for it)
But these takes are rare because no one wants to risk their “insider” status with Netflix PR. No screeners, no invites, no exclusive interviews? Oh no, how will they survive?
I’ll tell you how: by being honest.
This ain’t it, folks. Not by a long shot. I gave it 13 minutes, and it gave me a headache and a need to take a shower.
🗑️Final Verdict: TRASH. Burn it with the rest of the garbage.
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