From Maternity Wear to Mind Control: How ‘Wayward’ Uses Fashion to Expose America’s Teen Industry Horrors
In the hallowed halls of prestige television, where every frame is meticulously curated like a museum exhibit, Mae Martin’s “Wayward” emerges as an unexpected fashion manifesto—one that speaks volumes about power, control, and the aesthetic of institutional rebellion. Set against the deceptively pastoral backdrop of Tall Pines, Vermont, this eight-episode psychological thriller doesn’t just interrogate America’s troubling “therapeutic” teen industry; it serves up a masterclass in how costume design can weaponize nostalgia.
The series, deliberately anchored in 2003’s pre-smartphone era, luxuriates in the uncanny valley of recent memory—that strange temporal space where cargo pants coexisted with early-aughts minimalism, and where institutional uniforms carried an almost liturgical weight. Martin, who serves as both creator and protagonist Alex Dempsey, understands that fashion is never merely decorative; it’s psychological armor, particularly within the confines of Tall Pines Academy’s cult-like ecosystem.
Sarah Gadon’s Laura presents a fascinating study in sartorial transformation, her wardrobe evolving from the soft, expectant mother aesthetic of early episodes to the sharp-shouldered authority of someone who has claimed institutional power. When she declares that their newborn belongs to “everyone,” her costuming speaks to a woman who has shed domestic femininity for something far more unsettling—the uniform of the converted.
The series’ visual language draws heavily from the dark academia playbook, but subverts it brilliantly. Where typical boarding school narratives romanticize blazers and pleated skirts as symbols of privilege and tradition, “Wayward” strips away the fantasy to reveal these same elements as instruments of control. The academy’s uniforms don’t confer status; they erase identity, transforming adolescents into interchangeable subjects within a psychological experiment.
Sydney Topliffe’s Abbie, the academy escapee who ultimately flees with Alex and the baby, embodies resistance through studied dishevelment—her deliberately unkempt appearance serving as visual rebellion against institutional conformity. Her styling choices reflect the series’ broader interrogation of how young people navigate uncharted territories, often with only their instincts and whatever scraps of authenticity they can salvage.
Martin’s own aesthetic choices as Alex prove equally compelling. His wardrobe suggests a man caught between worlds—professional enough to suggest his law enforcement background, casual enough to imply his desire for domestic normalcy, yet increasingly disheveled as Tall Pines’ true nature reveals itself. It’s costuming that understands character arc as much as character motivation.
The production design team deserves particular praise for creating environments that feel simultaneously aspirational and sinister. Tall Pines itself becomes a character, its manicured facades hiding institutional brutality beneath layers of New England respectability. Every carefully chosen prop, from vintage telephones to period-appropriate vehicles, reinforces the series’ central thesis: that the recent past remains a foreign country, one where horrors masqueraded as healing.
While “Wayward” attempts perhaps too much—juggling mystery elements, social commentary, and Martin’s natural comedic instincts—its visual storytelling remains consistently sharp. The series understands that in our image-saturated culture, authenticity often lies in the details: the way fabric falls, how institutional spaces are designed to diminish individual agency, and how fashion can serve as both disguise and declaration.
