This review may contain spoilers
Some seeds grow. Some just sit in the dirt, humming old rock songs.
Modern Farmer had me at the pitch—a rock band ditching amps for agriculture? That’s the kind of absurdity I live for. There was such a weird, wonderful promise in that setup: four guys, big dreams, bigger egos, suddenly wrestling with chickens, turnips, and small-town politics. You could almost hear the offbeat charm bubbling beneath the surface. And for a while, it sort of worked. Sort of.
Let’s be real: the chemistry among the cast was the glue here. If not for them, I might’ve bailed by episode six. There’s a scrappy energy to the bandmates that feels genuine, like they’ve actually shared bad motel rooms and gas station ramen. Their bond wasn’t always written well, but it was felt—like watching real friends try to plow a field with nothing but optimism and a shovel made of duct tape. It’s goofy, chaotic, sometimes endearing.
But here’s the rub: while the characters had heart, the storytelling kept tripping over its own feet. The humor too often went for the obvious joke, like the writers were afraid to trust the weirder, more nuanced tone this show clearly could’ve nailed. There were entire chunks of plot that felt like they’d been copy-pasted from other dramas: love triangles drawn in crayon, village politics with all the subtlety of a pie in the face. And the pacing? Rough. There were episodes that felt like filler stitched together with chicken wire and wishful thinking.
And yet. And yet—there were flashes. Scenes that snuck up and actually made me feel something. A shared meal that lingered. A quiet moment in the fields where the city-boy chaos gave way to something still and real. Every now and then, the show tapped into that gentle theme of escape—not running away, but finding something honest in the dirt. Those moments were rare, but when they hit, they made me wish the whole show had leaned into that quieter, messier soul.
I didn’t hate it. But I was frustrated, often. Watching Modern Farmer was like seeing a band with real talent who keeps picking the wrong setlist. You know they can do better, and you stick around, hoping the next song is the one. Sometimes it is. Most of the time, you’re just watching them tune their instruments.
It’s not a total flop. Just a show that never quite found its harmony. I don’t regret the watch—but I won’t be singing its praises either.
Let’s be real: the chemistry among the cast was the glue here. If not for them, I might’ve bailed by episode six. There’s a scrappy energy to the bandmates that feels genuine, like they’ve actually shared bad motel rooms and gas station ramen. Their bond wasn’t always written well, but it was felt—like watching real friends try to plow a field with nothing but optimism and a shovel made of duct tape. It’s goofy, chaotic, sometimes endearing.
But here’s the rub: while the characters had heart, the storytelling kept tripping over its own feet. The humor too often went for the obvious joke, like the writers were afraid to trust the weirder, more nuanced tone this show clearly could’ve nailed. There were entire chunks of plot that felt like they’d been copy-pasted from other dramas: love triangles drawn in crayon, village politics with all the subtlety of a pie in the face. And the pacing? Rough. There were episodes that felt like filler stitched together with chicken wire and wishful thinking.
And yet. And yet—there were flashes. Scenes that snuck up and actually made me feel something. A shared meal that lingered. A quiet moment in the fields where the city-boy chaos gave way to something still and real. Every now and then, the show tapped into that gentle theme of escape—not running away, but finding something honest in the dirt. Those moments were rare, but when they hit, they made me wish the whole show had leaned into that quieter, messier soul.
I didn’t hate it. But I was frustrated, often. Watching Modern Farmer was like seeing a band with real talent who keeps picking the wrong setlist. You know they can do better, and you stick around, hoping the next song is the one. Sometimes it is. Most of the time, you’re just watching them tune their instruments.
It’s not a total flop. Just a show that never quite found its harmony. I don’t regret the watch—but I won’t be singing its praises either.
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