Netflix’s Wayward Merely Mimics Twin Peaks

Image: Netflix

David Lynch’s Twin Peaks occupies a singular place in television — an idiosyncratic blend of surrealism, mystery and horror that spawned countless imitators trying to replicate a very particular kind of atmosphere. A few, like Alan Wake II, capture shards of that tone; most do not.

Some comparisons are simply misplaced. Netflix’s new horror drama Wayward lands in that category.

Wayward is an eight-episode limited series from first-time showrunner Mae Martin that probes the shadowy world of the U.S. “troubled teen” industry. Set in 2003, it follows Alex Dempsey (Martin), a trans police officer, and his pregnant wife Laura (Gabrielle Creevy), who relocate to Laura’s hometown of Tall Pines, Vermont — the site of the ominous Tall Pines Academy, a rehabilitation institution for so-called “difficult” adolescents. Toni Collette gives a searing performance as Evelyn Wade, the academy’s charismatic and coercive director, whose influence over staff and pupils often reads as cultish. As Alex digs into the disappearance of a runaway boy, he uncovers abuses at the facility and Evelyn’s unsettling grip on Laura, a former resident. Meanwhile, two teenagers from Toronto, Leila (Amelia Sargisson) and Abbie (Carlyn Burchell), arrive at the academy and begin to expose its harsher practices.

Since its trailers earlier this year and its release this week, many critics have labeled Wayward “Netflix’s answer to Twin Peaks,” but the comparison is misleading. Lynch created a wholly original aesthetic in Twin Peaks — a porous blend of genres held together by persistent, unsettling surrealism and a tonal equilibrium that allowed disparate elements to coexist. Other creators have tried to channel that rare alchemy and mostly failed; even Showtime’s follow-up, Twin Peaks: The Return, underscored how singular Lynch’s approach is. Anchored by Collette’s magnetic turn, Wayward nevertheless rarely attains that same, otherworldly cohesion — and it’s not obvious that it needed to.

Across its eight episodes, Martin and the writers dabble in multiple genres without fully committing to a single one, producing a series that can feel tonally scattered. Leila and Abbie’s arc reads like a teen thriller, while Alex and Laura’s storyline veers into sci-fi-tinged horror. The two threads converge, but the tonal shifts don’t always fuse into a unified mood the way Lynch’s series did; surreal moments surface intermittently but don’t become the gravity of the show.

When Twin Peaks flirted with adolescent melodrama it maintained a low, persistent dread, sustained in part by its haunting score. That music threaded unease through even the most domestic scenes. By contrast, Wayward sometimes punctures a tense revelation with a pop-driven montage that feels lifted from a CW series, dissipating the built-up tension. Beyond the shared tropes of a small wooded town and parallel high-school and police plots, the resemblance largely ends — if anything, Riverdale offers a closer tonal cousin.

That said, Wayward is not without strengths. Its core mystery is compelling enough to sustain interest, and the series’ open ending leaves room for a follow-up season. Collette is a commanding presence, and Martin and Burchell give performances that furnish the show with real emotional weight.

Fixating on Lynch comparisons does Wayward a disservice: it primes viewers for a kind of surreal coherence the show intentionally does not pursue, and it distracts from the series’ critique of attempts to “fix” adolescence through punitive institutions. It also flattens what Twin Peaks actually achieved into a superficial shorthand, which undersells both projects.

Ultimately, Wayward centers on resisting the idea that family trauma is destiny. It interrogates self-acceptance, the messy liberty of youth, and how friendships can both rescue and complicate growth, while scrutinizing the troubling mechanics of the “troubled teen” industry — material shaped in part by Martin’s personal connections to that world. The genre-hopping sometimes reads like compromise rather than design, which is why the series never fully coheres into a single, unmistakable voice.

Wayward is available to stream on Netflix.

Source: Polygon