Reservation Dogs starts with a bang. The Muscogee radio DJ plays a song (we assume he is Muscogee because he says a long, drawn out “Mvto,” meaning “thank you” in Muscogee). We hear “I Wanna Be Your Dog,” a raucous, feral song by The Stooges. To viewers who aren’t Indigenous, I’m sure the dissonance is confusing as heck. I’m talking cultural dissonance, not the music itself. This isn't spiritual flute music—what’s going on? But this is the point. Taika Waititi and Sterlin Harjo’s first episode of FX’s Reservation Dogs throws you without warning into the Indigenous waters of the Muscogee reservation in rural Oklahoma, and they fully expect you to sink or swim. You will swim, of course, not because your life depends on it, but because you want to see what comes next.
Related Stories
For far too long, Indigeneity in media representation—that’s to say, actual representation that isn’t through the lens of a white man, at least in this country—has been missing. There have been countless shows and films that reference Indigeneity, but it’s all been a conduit for the showrunners, the writers, and the directors, who were non-Native but wanted to somehow use or reference Indigenous culture to further their ends and their stories. I get it—we are interesting! In fact, over the last three decades or so, there have been some strides and good intentions. Most recently, writer/director Taylor Sheridan comes to mind; in 2016, his script for Hell or High Water was sharp, though it did manage to kill off the Comanche character (Gil Birmingham, an actual Comanche actor) in favor of Jeff Bridges. In 2017’s Wind River, Sheridan managed to bring back Birmingham, only to present the film’s Native population as sad and absent of their own culture. At the end of Wind River, Birmingham sits with a painted face—not from any traditional practice or ceremony, but instead a new tradition he’s made up, because, he says, “There’s no one left to teach me.” That’s a bold commentary on Indigenous culture from a white guy, as he essentially resurrects the Vanishing Indian myth.
Self-representation has been largely absent in the U.S. It was never us, and by that I mean Indigenous people, writing our own stories, directing these stories, or acting in these stories, all at the same time. This is finally happening, and it’s exciting to see.
The four episodes of Reservation Dogs that FX has made available to critics crackle with creative fire and energy. It’s as if this decades-long dearth of Indigenous self-representation had created a creative blockage, and now the stories are available to flow freely and effortlessly. The dam has broken. If you choose to watch Reservation Dogs (and while we’re at it, Rutherford Falls, the other largely Indigenous show on Peacock), you’ll be at least curious, if not hungry for more episodes. The creativity, the energy, the storytelling, the acting—it’s all there. It always has been, and now it’s being made available by a network that took a chance (albeit, a chance on Waititi isn’t much of a gamble). Reservation Dogs is a coming-of-age comedy that had me howling as much as the similarly incredible FX show Atlanta. Much like Atlanta, we’re introduced to a culture and characters that are inherently American, have always been here, and have up until now been largely overlooked.
I myself know the characters in Reservation Dogs. I grew up in Oklahoma, I’m Muscogee, and I’m familiar with my mother’s homelands where the show was shot. What I’m excited about is Seminole/Muscogee showrunner Sterlin Harjo sharing this with you. This is your chance to know this area, these people, our people.
Shane Brown / FXFrom left to right: Lane Factor as Cheese, Paulina Alexis as Willie Jack, D’Pharaoh Woon-A-Tai as bear, and Kawennáhere Devery Jacobs as Elora.
The first episode, written by co-producers Waititi and Harjo, sets the tone: four aimless Muscogee teenagers, much like many American teenagers, look for adventure in their small rural community. (Full disclaimer, if you’re looking for historical lessons or ancient Indian wisdom, you will not find it here). A member of their “gang” has died, inspiring them to move west, following that old John Steinbeck tradition: Oklahoma to California, looking for a better life. Bear is the complicated self-described leader, Elora is the heart of the group, Willie Jack is the androgynous fiery one, and Cheese simply wants to get along. They are all brought to life by Indigenous performers: D’Pharaoh Woon-A-Tai (Ojibwe), Devery Jacobs (Kanien’kehá:ka Mohawk), Paulina Alexis (Alexis Nakota Sioux Nation), and Lane Factor (Caddo and Seminole Creek).
After a ceremony mourning their friend, the teens are challenged by a rival gang. They decide to stay and fight for their territory, for they have been christened by the two eyes and ears of the reservation, Mose and Mekko (the hilarious Native rap duo Lil Mike and Funnybone), as the Reservation Dogs. The pilot ends with the teens in full Reservoir Dogs gear: black suits with an Indigenous twist of cowboy hats, braids, and bolo ties. This is one of many subtle references to Quentin Tarantino, as when the teens grab their powwow/lawn chairs, and we see them via the ubiquitous Tarantino trunk shot. Elsewhere in the series, Bear sits underneath an actual Reservoir Dogs poster in his room. There’s also a treasure shot where golden light bounces from the faces looking at it. Shawnee Native musical hero Link Wray riffs are sprinkled throughout. While the references are notable, they’re not too prevalent—think small homages.
This is your chance to know this area, these people, our people.Town cop “Big,” played by Lakota actor Zahn McClarnon, brings levity and a subtle irreverence to the show. No one much respects or fears Big; he’s just always there. When the teens steal a hot chip truck and blaze through town, the back gate ajar and the ramp sparking fire in the streets, Big is too engrossed in a Kennedy documentary to be bothered. He knows who stole the truck; everyone knows everyone in this small reservation community. When he later confronts the kids about their recent misdeeds, theft, and graffiti, it’s hard to take him seriously—and the gang doesn’t. He leaves them with a warning about supernatural activity in the area (sightings of a deer woman), but before he leaves, he tells Bear to tell his mom, “Big stopped by,” though not for reasons that have anything to do with Bear. This is a tight-knit community where everyone knows everyone, and business and pleasure mix.
Dallas Goldtooth, who plays an otherworldly Native on horseback, the self-described “unknown warrior” William Knifeman, is laugh-out-loud hilarious. He arrives in dreamlike sequences to dispense his special brand of warrior wisdom. Knifeman was at the Battle of Little Big Horn, you see, but died when his horse tripped over a gopher hole and squashed him. Knifeman recurs throughout the series in an excellent bit as an apparition that only Bear sees, and only when you least expect it.
The second episode, “NDN Clinic,” ramps up the hilarity with contemporary Native truths. Anyone who’s ever had to use Indian Health Service will know exactly why the episode spends its entire run time at the hospital. For the non-Indigenous, I will tell you: going to the hospital can be an all-day affair, with the added bonus of seeing everyone in your community (hello gossip!). Navajo director Sydney Freeland capably takes the helm on this episode, and knows these characters and scenery well. When Bear is jumped by the rival gang, he’s visited again by the Unknown Warrior, William Knifeman, pissing by a trash can. Knifeman says sagely to Bear, “We are all just running away.” It’s clear he's more involved in his own inner thoughts than Bear’s current predicament, as he speaks this to the wind. He then says, “You better go to the clinic. Your nose looks fucked.”
In this episode, Harjo pays homage to his indie filmmaker past, casting the leads of his 2009 film Barking Water. Richard Ray Whitman plays a man selling traditional medicine cures out front of the hospital, while Casey Camp-Horinek plays the bedridden grandmother of Cheese.
This is a tight-knit community where everyone knows everyone, and business and pleasure mix.We also meet an Asian doctor, Dr. Kang, who hilariously represents all the doctors who get stationed at various IHS outposts in Indian country, paying their dues and likely their student loans until they can move on to something better. Kang laments to Bear that he is far from home and has put his life on hold for the time being, but he’s growing his hair out to better connect with his Indigenous surroundings. Enamored with Bear’s mother Rita, he visits her office after treating Bear. “It must have been hard raising him without a man around,” Dr. Kang empathically inquires. “You know, showing him what's what.” Sarah Podemski plays Rita, a woman trying to be a good mother who’s still young enough to date, but without many good prospects in this small community.
“Uncle Brownie,” which features national Native treasure Gary Farmer, is my favorite episode. Uncle Brownie, a weed aficionado, just wants to be left alone, but the Reservation Dogs decide to seek him out for self-defense training after Bear’s recent scuffle. It’s said he took out ten people at once in a bar fight, which turns to twenty, then thirty in an over-the-top funny scene featuring Farmer taking out various people in his younger days, wearing a ridiculous wig. The bar fight scene is clever in that Farmer punches out an Indian cowboy first, who to my trained ear calls him out in Navajo. It’s surely a reference to the director of this episode, Navajo filmmaker Blackhorse Lowe. His skill and background with stoner comedy in his own films makes him the perfect fit to direct here.
The Reservation Dogs must help Farmer sell his 15-year-old jar of weed as a trade for “fighting lessons.” Surprising no one but Uncle Brownie himself, no one wants his weed, as weed is now legal and easy to get in Oklahoma, as well as better than the “1990s” weed Uncle Brownie carries around in his backpack. When’s the last time we saw Gary Farmer play a contemporary cut-up, or to be even more specific, a weed dealer? For that alone, this episode is special, and we get to see Farmer in ways I don’t recall since Jim Jarmusch’s 1995 western, Dead Man, where he plays an eccentric Indian, Nobody. Farmer plays Uncle Brownie as a former rowdy Indian who comes to terms with his past by the end of the episode, cutting up back strap as a peace offering for the people at the bar he beat up so many years ago. Redemption by deer meat.
Shane Brown / FXElora and Willie Jack.
Episode 4, “What About Your Dad,” introduces Bear’s dad, a Native rapper named Pumpkin Lusty, as he raps in a music video for his single, “Greasy Frybread.” He’s coming back from the West Coast to perform at the local anti-diabetes dinner, where greasy frybreads “bigger than your face” will be served. Probably not the most appropriate food to serve for an anti-diabetes campaign, but hilariously on point, as the post-colonial food is considered contemporary iconography of Native culture. At the same time, it’s such a terribly unhealthy food to eat, especially with diabetes running rampant in Indian country.
Bear is excited, and Rita is nervous that her son will be let down once again by his absent father. A rift that’s been growing between Bear and Elora grows even more when Bear spends the group’s California money on frivolous things like a phallic beaded mic and a whole new outfit to greet his dad in.
Meanwhile, Harjo explores cultural dating dynamics when Rita hooks up with a white man at a bar, partially out of frustration and a diversion from her current situation. She meets David, who spots her and sidles up. “What are you having?” he asks. “A bad day,” Rita replies. “Maybe you can make it better?”
The next morning, David reveals his fetish for Indian women, and Rita briefly flirts with the idea of David over French press coffee until she sees his Confederate tattoo, replete with a feather hanging at the end. He’s the kind of guy who has Indian friends and emphasizes the “Lah” in Lakota. His family bought the land his house sits on fair and square from a Creek man who hit hard times, he defensively explains. The Creek man was occasionally allowed in to have dinner. Rita, horrified at the error she has made, slinks out as David asks, “Was it my tattoo?” Rita and Bear both make mistakes in this episode—Rita with her temporary diversion, Bear with his trust in his absent father—and come to an understanding. All they’ve really got is each other.
Shane Brown / FXBear, Elora, and Willie Jack.
The juxtaposition of Reservation Dogs against popular shows like The White Lotus (and to a lesser extent, Schitt’s Creek) is so jarring that it would take another 2000 words to excavate. While both shows explore white privilege and white fragility in an entertaining way, how refreshing is it to see things from the other side, for once? When do we get to see The White Lotus’ Hawaiian characters get their own show? The bourgeois ruling class can be fascinating and has been for umpteen years, but I’m over seeing the contrast between these people and the Indigenous people through their lens. It’s time for the Indigenous narrative to flourish, uninterrupted.
It’s finally happening in shows like Reservation Dogs. This feels like a spark—the beginning of a movement in Indigenous self-representation. The dissonance that you hear in the beginning of the first episode from The Stooges is the sound of our stories breaking through, at last.
ncG1vNJzZmivp6x7pr%2FQrqCrnV6YvK57xKernqqklravucSnq2ispmSudIORbGtrcGRkv6a%2FxKutmqyZpLtusM6gqmaqlau2psOMn69moZ6ZtqixzaisrGWjqbyzxdOeo6Whnpx8