Paramount+ rolled out Tulsa King on 13 November 2022, dropping nine brisk episodes that marry gangster swagger with fish‑out‑of‑water comedy. Created (at least on paper) by Yellowstone mastermind Taylor Sheridan and initially steered by Sopranos alum Terence Winter, the series follows 75‑year‑old capo Dwight "The General" Manfredi after a 25‑year bid.
Banished to Tulsa, Oklahoma, he must conjure a brand‑new criminal outfit from vape‑shop clerks, weed‑farmers, and unsuspecting locals—all while contending with a Mafia that has moved on without him. Despite mixed critical notices, the show pulled strong debut numbers for the streamer and was swiftly renewed.
Tulsa King review seekers will find an entertaining, if undeniably pulpy, binge that lives or dies on Stallone's granite charisma.
A middle‑of‑the‑road 3/5 signals that Tulsa King remains watchable but laces its premise with enough eye‑rolling modern messaging to break immersion. Offenders include:
These elements never derail the plot completely, yet they puncture the tough‑guy fantasy every time they surface. Worse, many "woke" beats are simply bad writing masquerading as progressivism: clunky jokes about gender studies or ham‑fisted race commentary that lands with a thud.
🎯 Deduct two stars for ideological noise; spare a third because the show redeems itself whenever Stallone gets to crack skulls instead of cultural eggshells.
Stallone's gravel‑voiced gravitas anchors the series; at 78 he still commands the frame, turning Dwight into a paradox of old‑school brutality and unexpected tenderness. His chemistry with Andrea Savage's weary federal agent offers sparks of genuine pathos, suggesting a life neither can fully reclaim.
Supporting turns are more uneven. Jay Will wrings humor from Tyson's incredulity, yet the script reduces him to occasional "boomer translator." Domenick Lombardozzi steals moments as the insecure heir apparent, though he's too often off‑screen. Meanwhile, a rogues' gallery of Tulsa misfits—bar owner Mitch (Garrett Hedlund) and weed‑farmer Bodhi (Martin Starr)—provide colorful texture but rarely evolve beyond archetype.
"In this town I'm the new economy," Dwight growls—a line that lands because Stallone sells the menace even when the surrounding dialogue feels first‑draft.
🎭 Ultimately, the ensemble orbits the star, and when he's absent the engine sputters. Strong faces, thin arcs.
Credit Sheridan and Winter for a crackerjack premise; dock them for execution that feels rushed and occasionally amateurish. Exposition often arrives via on‑the‑nose monologues ("I've been locked up 25 years, kid!") rather than visual storytelling. Jokes lean broad—Dwight can't work an iPhone, har har—while dramatic turns rely on contrivances a sharper room would refine.
The bigger sin is tone whiplash: one minute we're in Get Shorty banter, the next a brutal curb stomp, the next an ABC‑family heart‑to‑heart about chasing dreams. That inconsistency undermines both comedy and menace, preventing the series from reaching the layered heights of, say, Barry or Sopranos.
💬 Even so, a few zingers land ("You're Google, I'm Encyclopedia Britannica") and Stallone makes ham taste gourmet.
📝 The show's dialogue swings between genuinely witty observations about generational clash and cringe‑worthy attempts at "relevance."
Director of photography Ben Richardson bathes Tulsa in warm ambers and neons—Route 66 signs, honky‑tonk bars, and big‑sky sunsets contrast sharply with Dwight's tailored suits. The visual gag of a Brooklyn bruiser against Midwestern sprawl remains amusing nine episodes in.
🎬 Action beats, though infrequent, are shot cleanly: quick dolly‑in, practical squibs, minimal shaky‑cam. Paramount's budget shows in occasional drone establishing shots that scream "B unit," yet interior locations (a deconsecrated church–turned–weed farm) drip character.
The series never attains the operatic grandeur of Sheridan's westerns, but it carves out a grittier, bar‑room aesthetic that suits its down‑market mobster tone. 🌆 Tulsa itself becomes a character—sun‑baked, sprawling, and stubbornly resistant to East Coast sophistication.
The cinematography captures both the beauty and isolation of middle America, making Dwight's exile feel genuinely punitive.
Beneath the pulp lies a meditation on ageing alpha males in a world that's moved on. Dwight's refusal to bend—technologically, socially, morally—sparks both comedy and tragedy. The show flirts with questions of earned loyalty versus coerced obedience, and whether redemption is even possible for men whose skill set begins and ends with violence.
Unfortunately, these ideas are raised more than explored; subplots resolve via bullets rather than introspection. Still, glimpses of depth—such as Dwight's paternal instincts toward Tyson or a poignant visit to an empty family home—hint at the richer drama that might have been had the writers trusted nuance over body‑count catharsis.
🎭 The series works best when examining the collision between old‑world values and new‑world realities—moments where Stallone's weathered face tells stories the script can't quite articulate.
Tulsa King is brain‑off popcorn TV elevated by Stallone's magnetism and a setting novel enough to feel fresh, yet hampered by jittery writing and intermittent preachiness. At 8.70/10 it clears the "binge while folding laundry" bar but never approaches classic status.
🏆 Viewers loyal to Paramount+ or Sly die‑hards will find sufficient swagger to justify the nine‑episode commitment. Everyone else has "100 better shows" in TheAtt archive to sample first.
The woke flourishes—rating 3/5—are annoying rather than fatal; grit your teeth through them and you'll still enjoy the bar‑fight burlesque. As Dwight might say:
"It ain't elegant, but it gets the job done."
⭐ Final Verdict: A guilty pleasure that knows exactly what it is—no more, no less. Worth a watch for Stallone completists and anyone craving old‑school mob swagger with a Midwestern twist.
