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good psychological thriller was long due on the Netflix. Wayward just delivered that. Mae Martin’s eight-episode Canadian-British mini-series defies its tranquil setting to expose the hidden machinery of control.
Set in the deceptively picturesque town of Tall Pines, Vermont, the show begins with the familiar polish of small-town serenity before unspooling into a dark story about power, manipulation and the silent costs of belonging. It is not just a mystery drama—it is a psychological autopsy of how some systems break people in the name of helping them.
At the centre is Alex Dempsey, portrayed by the Canadian actor and comedian Mae Martin. Alex is a new police officer whose move to Tall Pines coincides with a series of unsettling disappearances and incidents surrounding a local academy for troubled teens.
Toni Collette plays Evelyn Wade, the head of this institution embodying the type of charismatic authority that thrives in closed systems. Sarah Gadon plays Laura Redman, Alex’s wife and a former student of the academy, bringing a quietly haunted energy that ties past trauma to present suspense. The younger cast, Alyn Lind as Leila and Sydney Topliffe as Abbie, deliver raw, intuitive performances that make the adolescent core of the series painfully believable.
Narratively, the show balances mystery with moral inquiry. Each episode peels back a layer of the institution’s operation.
From its opening episode, Wayward unfolds like a restrained nightmare. The colour palette is muted yet has a yellowish hue that smells of crime and rotten networks in a seemingly serene town. The forests are mist-covered and the smiles forced. Every line of dialogue carries the suspicion of double meaning.
Director Maiya Mishkin’s camera lingers on silence—the moment before someone answers, the flicker of doubt behind a confident façade—turning the show into a study of restraint. The result is slow-burn tension that never feels cheap. It earns its dread through atmosphere and implication rather than gore or jump scares.
Psychologically, the series excels at depicting coercive persuasion. The Tall Pines Academy functions as a case study in how institutions justify control under the guise of care. Teenagers are “reformed” through isolation, public confessions and emotional dependency on authority figures. What makes this portrayal disturbing is its realism. Martin and the writing team reportedly drew on research into real-life “troubled-teen” facilities, of which many operated with minimal oversight while claiming to “fix” the youth. Viewers familiar with the psychology of obedience especially Milgram’s experiments or Zimbardo’s prison study will undoubtedly recognise the patterns. Authority is internalised, dissent punished and trauma reframed as growth.
Mae Martin, better known for the semi-autobiographical comedy Feel Good, makes a confident tonal pivot here. Wayward’s Alex is an understated but magnetic performance. Here is a character navigating the cognitive dissonance between duty and empathy. Alex’s slow unraveling mirrors the audience’s own disorientation: the more he learns, the less he trusts his surroundings, and eventually himself.
Toni Collette, meanwhile, delivers another masterclass in psychological ambiguity. Her Evelyn Wade oscillates between saviour and sadist, a woman who genuinely believes her methods heal, even as they destroy. She personifies what psychologists call “benevolent control”—the conviction that domination is a form of care.
Narratively, the show balances mystery with moral inquiry. Each episode peels back a layer of the institution’s operation. By episode five, what began as a detective story evolves into an existential crisis about truth, loyalty and the human need for structure. The pacing demands patience, but the payoff is substantial. The final two episodes tie the psychological and personal threads together, revealing not only the institution’s hidden agenda but also the complicity of the entire town; a chilling metaphor for collective denial.
Wayward is a psychological autopsy of how some systems break people in the name of helping them.
Visually, Wayward uses its Canadian landscapes to full advantage. The dense woods, empty lakes and fading sunlight reinforce the sense of isolation. The cinematography by Catherine Leduc frames nature not as escape but as entrapment: beautiful, silent and indifferent. The soundtrack complements this with minimalist piano and dissonant strings that echo the show’s emotional temperature that is lonely, tense and unresolved.
What makes the mini-series particularly resonant is its empathy for those caught in systems that dwarf them. It refuses to turn victims into symbols or villains into caricatures. The abusers are shown through a psychological lens that hints at their own histories of indoctrination. In this way, the series becomes less about good versus evil and more about how trauma replicates itself through institutions that claim to protect. It is an uncomfortable mirror for viewers who have ever trusted authority too easily.
The series is not without its flaws. Some subplots, particularly those involving side characters in the police department, feel underdeveloped. The slow pacing may alienate audiences expecting more overt thrills although Wayward compensates for that with thematic richness and a haunting tone that lingers long after the credits. It is less about finding out “who did it” and more about understanding why everyone allowed it to happen.
By its conclusion, Wayward leaves viewers uneasy but thoughtful. It suggests that evil does not always hide behind violence; it often wears the mask of moral certainty. As the final scene fades, Alex Dempsey’s haunted eyes reflect the show’s core insight: that conformity, when mixed with fear, is the most dangerous drug of all.
Wayward is thus not only a compelling psychological thriller but also a sociological commentary on obedience, trust and the cost of redemption. It belongs to the growing genre of prestige dramas that diagnose societal dysfunction as intimately as they tell stories. For viewers willing to sit with discomfort, it is one of 2025’s most quietly devastating shows—a chilling reminder that the road to ruin is often paved with good intentions.
The writer has a degree in psychology with a minor in mass communication. She can be reached atukmaryam2gmail.com