Wayward Review: Mae Martin’s Netflix Thriller Probes Family, Authority and Identity

Netflix's Wayward arrives as a quiet, unnerving thriller from Mae Martin, the comedian behind Feel Good, that centers on family, control, and the uncertain line between care and coercion. Set in 2003 Tall Pines, Vermont, the series follows a small town where people know each other too well and where secrets gather at the farmers market. At its core is Tall Pines Academy, a boarding school led by Evelyn Wade, whose imperturbable poise masks a program that promises to reshape troubled teens. Toni Collette plays Wade with a still, almost soothing menace that hints at danger beneath the rhetoric of rehabilitation. Wayward blends psychological thriller, teen drama, and police procedural, using Martin’s dry humor to prevent the premise from tipping into melodrama while inviting viewers to question who gets to decide what constitutes a “successful” life.

In the opening act, Leila, a lonely student with a fraught past after the death of her sister, and her friend Abbie become focal points. Leila is labeled a “toxic addict sociopath with abandonment issues” by a Toronto guidance counselor, pushing Abbie’s parents to consent to a transfer that lands Abbie at Tall Pines after a late-night abduction. Across the border, Abbie adjusts to a rigid, isolating regime under Wade’s supervision. The show then introduces Laura, a former Academy graduate who returns to Tall Pines with her husband, Alex, a Detroit-trans man who has joined the police force, seeking a safe space to raise a child. When Riley, a barefoot boy who has escaped the school, appears, a tense manhunt begins, and the sense that something more is going on—beyond disappearance cases that have quietly stacked up—takes hold.

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Alex’s suspicion and Laura’s ambivalence set the moral tempo. He questions whether Wade’s generosity is masking coercive control; Laura, initially grateful for the community she credits with saving her, admits Wade can “see right through you,” while also acknowledging the temptation to stay. The investigation unfolds as Evelyn strides into the police station, a commanding presence that makes officers rack their schedules around her directives. The show does not pretend to have clean answers; it steadily reveals patterns: children vanish, adults fall into Wade’s orbit, and the townspeople oscillate between trust and fear. The tension is amplified by the cast’s chemistry, particularly the dynamic between Collette’s restrained menace and Mae Martin’s wry, unsettlingly calm narration. As the episodes progress, Wayward uses these threads to probe questions about trans identity, the politics of care, and the costs of stringent parental oversight.

Martin’s writing—drawn from a memory of the early 2000s reform-school era—maps a shadowy landscape where attachment theory collides with cultish psychology and the self-help boom. Wade’s multi-step curriculum follows a process: break down resistance, then rebuild identity within the Tall Pines framework, culminating in a group-therapy style ritual that can feel more coercive than supportive. The show stages these moments with deliberate quiet, letting the audience fill in the moral gaps. It also foregrounds LGBTQ characters who are too often marginalized in teen-drama narratives, including Alex’s experience as a transgender man negotiating masculinity in a town built on tolerance that sometimes borders complicity. The result is a drama that avoids sermonizing; it presents contradictions and invites viewers to weigh competing impulses toward protection and control, affection and obedience.

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Ultimately Wayward offers a record of a time when the fear and possibility of parenting collided with evolving social norms. It contextualizes hotly debated topics without reductive answers, arguing that authoritarian impulses can masquerade as benevolent intent and that even loving institutions can become vehicles for control. In its quiet, measured voice, Wayward asks how families shape us, and how a community’s idea of care can become a cage. The season closes with a cryptic, unresolved mood that signals further questions rather than clear conclusions, a choice that aligns with Martin’s aim to provoke independent contemplation rather than deliver a tidy verdict.

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