The latest in our series of writers drawing attention to their most rewatched comfort films is a celebration of an easily quotable western

On 26 October 1881, four men – gambler and lawman Wyatt Earp, his brothers Virgil and Morgan, and his tubercular dentist friend Henry “Doc” Holliday – strode through the silver mining town of Tombstone, Arizona, and advanced on an alley next to Fly’s Boarding House and Photography Studio, just west of the OK Corral.

Thirty seconds of gunfire later, two men were dead and another lay dying; over the years, what was, depending on your viewpoint, either a law enforcement operation or a triple homicide became romanticized as a heroic tale of good defeating evil.

This yawnsome homespun six-parter from the creator of Yellowstone aims to teach the womenfolk a lesson by dropping them into untamed, plain-talkin’ Montana. It’s full of terrible jokes and cloying aphorisms

Preston Clyburn (Kurt Russell) is laughing at trout. “Hah-hah,” says the rugged retiree, up to his buttocks in river as a Yellowstone cutthroat sploshes obligingly into his net. “I’m keepin’ it, and you’re cookin’ it,” he barks at his younger brother, Paul, who would rather Preston release the hapless vertebrate back into the wild but nevertheless respects his sibling’s need to connect with his inner Cro-Magnon (“the love of fishin’ goes back to early man …”).

Paul is played by Matthew Fox, who was once in Lost but is now marooned in a drama that requires him to say things like: “I make a memory a day, brother … sometimes more.” Despite this, Paul, too, is laughing. “Heh,” he says, as he and Preston splash and frolic in their matching utility slacks. “Heheheh.”