‘Virgin River’: The Show No One Cares About Is Netflix’s Biggest Hit

When Netflix announced in October they’d renewed Virgin River for a seventh season, making the adaptation of Robyn Carr’s romance novels their longest-running English-language drama ever (Orange Is the New Black was initially classed purely as a comedy), the public’s general consensus appeared to be, “What the heck is Virgin River?”

Populated by actors of the ‘where do I know them from?’ variety rather than any big names, and boasting a tried and trusted premise that could have fitted into any network TV landscape over the last 40 years, the timeless/unfashionable (delete as applicable) saga has completely flown under the pop cultural radar since its debut in 2019.

Yet, just like Blue Bloods, NCIS, or any entry in Dick Wolf’s ever-ballooning universe, its viewership is impressively disproportionate to its media buzz. Its 2023 fifth season graced Netflix’s Top 10 in 77 different territories. It even hit number one in the USA, briefly dethroning the 12-week chart-topper Suits, a show which undeniably fulfills a similar comfort viewing purpose, in the process. And in the space of just four months, it racked up a total of 331 million hours watched—a typically arbitrary calculation for sure, but one only surpassed by the far more high-profile One Piece, The Witcher, and Sex Education.

So how has a show that arrived with so little fanfare managed to compete with the jewels in Netflix’s crown? Well, the small matter of a global pandemic may well have helped. Set in Northern California yet filmed in British Columbia, Virgin River’s picturesque landscapes (you’re never more than a few minutes away from a sweeping National Geographic-esque shot of a waterfall, lake, or pine tree forest) offered some much-needed escapism at a time when most of us were stuck inside the same four walls.

Moreover, its sense of community (Who wouldn’t want to live in a place where events named the Moonlight Mingle and Lumberjack Games dominate the social calendar?) and sedate pace (remarkably, only six months have passed between the first and sixth seasons) provided a reassuring shoulder in a time of such great uncertainty. And all the while with permanently immaculate hair and enough large glasses of red wine to sink an Armada, too.

However, there are several reasons why, unlike the similarly-toned Firefly Lane (canceled after two seasons), Virgin River has continued to thrive once the world retained some semblance of normality. There’s its ability to combine the genteel with the gritty, for one thing. Indeed, come for the Hallmark-esque concept of ‘big city girl heads for new life in sleepy small town,’ stay for the unexpected detours into domestic abuse, postpartum depression, and Fentanyl smuggling.

The big city girl here, of course, is Alexandra Breckenridge’s Mel Monroe, a nurse practitioner who tries to leave her old Los Angeles life behind on relocating to the titular area. Although new grouchy boss Doc Mullins (Tim Matheson) initially doesn’t take too kindly to her folk round there, most of the locals welcome her with open arms, including nosy mayor Hope (Annette O’Toole) and, most notably, perennially plaid-shirted marine-turned-bar owner Jack (Martin Henderson).

It doesn’t take a genius to work out Mel and Jack will get together, even with the obstacles of their respective traumas (her husband died tragically in a car crash, he’s suffering from war-induced PTSD) and the latter’s constantly sabotaging friend-with-benefits Charmaine (Lauren Hammersley). To its credit, though, the show doesn’t string the inevitable for as long as you’d expect: they’ve kissed by Episode 8, and by the end of the first season, Jack has declared he’s head over heels. Audiences burned by Netflix’s trigger-happy cancelation policy can rest easy they’ll never be cheated out of a resolution here.

Of course, even in a chocolate box fictional town, the path of true love never runs smooth. Over the next four seasons, the on/off pair have to deal with kidnappings, knifepoint robberies, and housefires, Mel suffering a miscarriage, and, fully leaning into the prime-time soap opera vibes, Jack becoming the victim of a “Who Shot J.R.”-style whodunnit (spoiler alert: it was a minor character’s identical twin). The fact that even such a watercooler-friendly mystery barely caused a ripple outside the show’s loyal fan base further proves Virgin River exists within its own universe.

That universe may possibly expand in the near future: the sixth season’s flashbacks to Mel’s parents are apparently testing the waters for a prequel series. But even if Virgin River stays a one-show neighborhood, there’s still plenty to hold your attention (or occasionally make you glance up from some multi-tasking) besides its on/off Mills and Boon romance.

There are subplots involving an FBI-evading bakery truck owner, a surprisingly busy underground drugs ring, and a who’s the daddy twist M. Night Shyamalan would be proud of, while season five upends the picture-perfect aesthetics with a devastating wildfire. Sure, the show could never be mistaken for The Wire. Still, at least it acknowledges that “unfortunate things happen.” For a genre typically devoid of serious conflict and life-or-death consequences, that’s progress.

It’s also more open-minded in how it gives actors of a certain age the limelight. Both now in their 70s, Matheson and O’Toole play long-term partners whose complicated relationship is often afforded as much gravitas as Virgin River’s central couple (who are hardly young whippersnappers themselves). In fact, it’s when the show switches attention to teenage matters—aspiring marine Ricky’s (Grayson Maxwell Gurnsey) career-or-love dilemma, for example—that it comes unstuck. In an age where streamers seem preoccupied with courting Gen-Z, it’s not hard to see the appeal of a show which values experience over youth.

Inevitably, Virgin River isn’t quite so radical in its politics. In fact, perhaps wisely, it steers clear of the subject entirely, although the books’ synopsis mentioning that its outpost was “built by men of honor for the women they love” suggests it’s at least grounded in some form of neotraditionalism. The same goes for religion, with the odd rant from devout Christian Connie (Nicola Cavendish) and occasional sighting of the local church the only overt displays of faith. This is equal opportunities cozy TV designed to soothe audiences of any persuasion. (while predominantly white and straight, the cast has gradually developed more characters of color and from the LGBTQ spectrum, too).

Don’t be surprised to see Virgin River surpass Spanish drama Elite’s eight seasons, either (it’s already clocked up 10 more episodes). Cheap to make (the action is largely confined to the local clinic, a handful of homes, and the Watershed Grill) and with a loyal built-in audience hanging on every restorative word, it’s the kind of show streaming execs dream about. Just don’t expect to read many feverish think pieces in celebration.