by Tim Gordon
Wayward is the kind of series that lures you in with its postcard-perfect setting before pulling back the curtain to reveal something much darker underneath. Created by Mae Martin, this Canadian-British limited series aims to expose the troubled teen industry’s sinister underbelly while weaving together a web of generational grief, manipulation, and buried secrets.
At its center are two teen slackers, Leile (Alyvia Alyn Lind) and Abbie (Sydney Topliffe), whose rebellion masks deeper wounds. Still reeling from the loss of a sibling, Leile clings desperately to Abbie, dragging her best friend into her spiral of grief and recklessness. Their dynamic captures the restless energy of youth, though the series never fully explores their inner lives beyond the archetypes of “angsty teens with too much to lose.”
On the other side of town, police officer Alex Dempsey (Martin) and his pregnant wife Laura (Sarah Gadon) arrive in Tall Pines hoping for tranquility, only to discover that their picturesque new home harbors layers of rot. The supposedly restorative Tall Pines Academy becomes the series’ epicenter, presided over by Evelyn Wade (Toni Collette), a chillingly charismatic headmistress with Svengali-like control over her students.
Collette’s work here recalls her unforgettable turns in Hereditary and The Sixth Sense, characters defined by their fragility teetering on the edge of mania, whose every whisper and glare carries menace. As Evelyn Wade, she embodies the kind of authority that feels at once maternal and predatory. It’s a performance rooted in psychological complexity, where manipulation hides under warmth, and devotion masks something darker. She dominates nearly every scene she’s in, elevating the material and reminding us of her rare ability to balance terror with humanity.
Thematically, Wayward swings for big ideas: how vulnerable teens become pawns in industries designed to “fix” them, how grief and ambition warp into control, and how entire communities collude in keeping ugly truths buried. At its best, the series captures this uneasy duality, the serene façade of Tall Pines contrasted with its sinister indoctrination tactics. And stylistically, the show gives off an undeniable Twin Peaks vibe: idyllic small-town trappings, eccentric characters, surreal flourishes, and a creeping sense that reality itself is unreliable. That atmosphere keeps the audience uneasy, even when the plot falters.
Yet for all its ambition, the eight-part series doesn’t always land its punches. The pacing can be uneven, bogged down by melodrama in some stretches while rushing past potentially richer character moments in others. Martin’s passion as showrunner, writer, and star is undeniable, but Wayward sometimes feels like it’s juggling too many perspectives at once. The teen arcs, while compelling in setup, too often serve as pieces orbiting Wade’s dominating presence rather than fully realized stories in their own right.
Still, the show benefits from strong performances across the board. Lind and Topliffe bring a raw edge to Leile and Abbie’s fraught friendship, and Gadon lends quiet gravitas to Laura, grounding the series’ more surreal flourishes. But it’s Collette who elevates Wayward from standard Netflix thriller to something more unsettling, embodying the seductive pull and hidden cruelty of systems that claim to “save” while slowly destroying.
In the end, Wayward is both sinister and uneven, a series with a compelling premise, excellent performances, and thematic ambition, but one that falters in coherence and emotional depth. It may not redefine the genre, but for viewers drawn to stories about power, control, and the thin line between guidance and manipulation, it offers enough intrigue to warrant a watch.
The series was initially reviewed at the Toronto Film Festival on September 9, 2025
Grade: C
