Since 2012, super-producer Dick Wolf has built an empire atop the foundation established by “Chicago Fire,” expanding the series into an entire universe of procedurals with their own dedicated night on NBC. Now that rival network CBS has a firefighting hit of its own in “Fire Country” (now entering its fourth season), the broadcast institution appears to be following the same first-responder procedural playbook. A spinoff, “Sheriff Country,” premieres this week; if the show succeeds, one imagines “Med Country” and “Justice Country” can’t be too far behind.
But any success “Sheriff Country,” created by Matt Lopez (the “Father of the Bride” remake) and executive produced by Jerry Bruckheimer, might enjoy won’t be due to its standalone quality. Starting with the nonsensical name — “Fire Country” is a place where wildfires happen; is “Sheriff Country” a place where…sherriff-ing happens? — and flatlining from there, the show is a generically conceived, limply executed take on small-town law enforcement. That premise is already belied by “Sheriff Country” taking place in the same rural California-but-shot-in-Canada outpost as “Fire Country,” the fictional and supposedly tiny Edgewater, even though most of its characters are brand new. (“Fire Country” stars Max Thieriot and Diane Farr make cameos, and some protagonists were previously introduced in the flagship show via backdoor pilot.) The setup only degrades further over the four episodes screened for critics.
Morena Baccarin, a seasoned actor who’s been far better served elsewhere, plays the titular Mickey Fox, the acting head of the county police force related to the Leones of “Fire Country” via a since-dissolved marriage. Mickey is introduced amiably as we see her talking two brothers off the ledge of mutual homicide with her gun trained on them and theirs on each other. It’s a strange mix of action and attempted folksiness that doesn’t get any smoother as the season goes on. One of the brothers sports a suit and ponytail á la John Travolta in “Pulp Fiction,” the first of many Mickey adversaries to come off like goofy caricatures, like a gang of pot growers who drug and enslave unsuspecting college students to work their crop. (Seems unnecessary now that weed is a multibillion-dollar, semi-legal industry!) If the point of the show is to create an intimate portrait of a tight-knit community, the antagonists of the week work at cross-purposes to that goal.
Mickey is only acting sheriff for now, having yet to be officially elected after inheriting the role from her old boss. Complicating her campaign are Mickey’s struggles with her daughter Skye (Amanda Arcuri), a recovering addict with a bad influence of a boyfriend, and father Wes (W. Earl Brown), an ex-con clunkily described as “the patron saint of Edgewater outlaws.” When Skye stumbles on said boyfriend’s dead body, it kicks off the larger storyline of “Sheriff Country” to fill the space between armed robberies, abuse cases and other local crimes — though confusingly, it wraps up rather quickly, leaving the rest of the season a wide-open slate. Skye herself has almost no distinguishing characteristics besides her fragile state and propensity for terrible decisions, especially as the investigation around her boyfriend’s death kicks into gear. Meanwhile, the contrast between rule-breaking, government-despising Wes and his daughter’s chosen profession is too clumsily drawn — Mickey laments his “bad ass reputation” and, at one point, abruptly throws something at Wes in frustration — to carry much weight.
In her quest to prove herself to the Edgewater electorate, Mickey is constantly professing her love for “this town” and its people. (To wit: “It’s not about me or you. It’s about this town!”; “I thought this town knew me”; “That’s your problem, Mickey — you’re too close to this town.”) But “Sheriff Country” struggles to instill that same affection in the audience. A subplot about the opioid crisis feels more like a prerequisite for any 2020s show about working-class America than a specific interest, and neither Mickey nor her deputies Cassidy (Michele Weaver) and Boone (Matt Lauria) distinguish themselves from so many TV cops past. If “Fire Country” really does have the makings of a full-blown franchise, they’re not on display here.
