Them - Season 1

“Them gives room to see Black women support and be present for each other.”

Title: Them
Episodes Reviewed: Season 1
Creator: Little Marvin 👨🏾🇺🇸
Writers: Little Marvin 👨🏾🇺🇸 (10 eps), Christina Ham 👩🏾🇺🇸 (9 eps), Francine Volpe 👩🏼🇺🇸 (9 eps), and various

Reviewed by Deborah D.E.E.P. Mouton 👩🏾🇺🇸

—SPOILERS AHEAD—

Technical: 4/5

Prime Video adds to the canon of Black horror with Them, a terrifying look at race and culture in Los Angeles. Set in 1953, this genre approach to storytelling—reminiscent of Get Out (2017) and HBO series Lovecraft Country—juxtaposes the horrors of racism with the nightmares that haunt our subconscious.

Them follows Lucky (Deborah Ayorinde) and Henry Emory (Ashley Thomas) on their journey towards the American dream of purchasing a home. But from the first sound of a mysterious whistle, showrunner Little Marvin makes the audience aware of the dangers that can live inside that very same home. Long and suspenseful shots stoke childhood fears of dark basements and monster-filled closets, while the writing offers solid social commentary on themes of redlining and biased mortgage lending practices.

Unfortunately, that commentary becomes muddled as the family slips into madness. In addition, the plot’s hyper-focus on the torture of Black bodies, both emotionally and physically, may leave some audiences more traumatized than gleefully scared. Audiences may cringe as home intruders turn Lucky and Henry’s child into a “cat in a bag,” shaking the child to death. It’s scenes like this where the points about the hurdles of Black progress seem to disappear in favor of pure shock and awe. And that is the start of this show’s greatest pitfall.

The latter part shifts towards a fantastical parallel of a haunted house lying amidst the already seething neighborhood, where a heavy-handed denouement veers too far into alternate histories that stretch beyond the realm of believability. It lessens the impact of the initial, brilliant ideas. Ayorinde and Thomas serve unforgettable performances, but the plot simply strikes off into too many directions. The terrors of being Black during mid-century America do need to be remembered, but Them spends too much time on gore, rape, and burning bodies to sync into a satisfying watch.

Gender: 4.5/5
Does it pass the Bechdel Test? YES

Not only does the main character Lucky support her loving husband, she has her own life. Them follows Lucky outside the home as she ventures across the suburban tracks to confide in a long-lost friend, Hazel Emory (Paula Jai Parker). Their deep connection gives room to see Black women support and be present for each other.

In addition, the supporting cast of Lucky and Henry’s daughters Ruby Lee (Shahadi Wright Joseph) and Gracie (Melody Hurd) give us the chance to see how racism frighteningly affects the body across generations. Ruby Lee attends a previously segregated school and finds herself haunted by a spirit dedicated to cheerleading and skin-bleaching, while Gracie is troubled by a teacher (Dirk Rogers) who comes to life from an early reader book and causes her to question everything, including her own mother. The daughters’ combined effort to outlast these monsters shows audiences that every stage of being a young Black woman comes with its own ongoing attack—one that maturing only makes more dangerous.

Lastly, the growing tension from angered neighbors, led by the Karen-type character Betty Wendell (Alison Pill), heightens the disparate experiences of women across race. While both women live on the edges of their sanity, trying to preserve what they believe to be right, Betty is unable to relate to Lucky. Their strained relationship demonstrates the limits of early feminism and to what extent white women silence Black women as a means of exerting what little power they have in a world built for men. Unfortunately, the inclusion of Betty’s affair with a traveling milkman (Ryan Kwanten), and her eventual kidnapping, causes the plot to drift away from the more interesting driveway confrontations between Betty and Lucky.

Lastly, a few episodes shift away from the female perspective entirely, subverting the initial success that hinged on masterful interplay between these above women. Episode 9, “Covenant II,” falls back into the typical male gaze and uses female characters as accessories to a male-driven plot to keep the small town alive.

Race: 4.5/5

A racially charged story about a Black family during the ‘50s could easily lend itself to clichés, but the show largely evades them. For starters, its backdrop in California moves away from the traditional Southern narrative, not unlike the way HBO’s Lovecraft Country, set partly in Massachusetts, shed light on the atrocities of sundown towns that were prevalent across the United States. In Them, Little Marvin gives us a fresh take on a region we might otherwise view as liberal or safe, digging into the ways that anti-Blackness ruled differently in the West.

All of this is possible because Little Marvin and executive producer Lena Waithe, who are both based in Los Angeles, are able to draw on the seen and unseen horrors of the Black Experience. Under their guidance, the series offers deep characters of color who exhibit a wide range of emotions: joy and pain, hope and devastation. Scenes between Lucky and Henry feel simultaneously ominous and hopeful in the most organic way. This balancing act is the sign of great writing as well as authenticity—two things that are seldom found in most mainstream shows.

The only things that keep Them from a full score involve a smattering of tropes that do arrive, such as Lucky’s rage while screaming in the street like “an angry Black woman.” But even these tiresome characterizations are justified within the script. This level of layering and unpacking gives the show an edge when it comes to representing Black life.

Disability: 4/5

Them demonstrates several instances of not only trauma, but mental health, too. Lucky, who watches her child being killed as she is being raped, carries with her severe pain and anguish and is constantly misunderstood by her neighborhood. With the potential to fall into trope—of “strong Black women” written as pillars of immovable strength who can endure anything and everything—Them thankfully examines what happens when relentless survival mode becomes too much, and Lucky finally breaks. And while her husband initially seems unaffected by the death of their son, as the series progresses, audiences start to watch as that facade crumbles too.

By midseason, Henry seems to be folding under the guilt of being absent the day his wife and child were attacked. He is haunted by his own demon, Da Tap Dance Man, played by Jeremiah Birkett in ghoulish minstrel makeup. Henry’s regret and shame are palpable and radiate through his desire to keep his family safe for the remainder of the series.

These complex characters show how the aftereffects of trauma, often left untreated, play a historical role in the ongoing journey of Black survival. Emotions like grief and rage can morph into their own monsters, posing their own threats. By showing the internal struggles of sympathetic characters like the Emorys, Little Marvin confronts the topic of mental health in the Black community head on, one that can feel taboo at times, and asks for his audience to do the same within themselves.

Mediaversity Grade: B+ 4.25/5

Them gives a heart-wrenching examination of anti-Blackness in 1950s California, with commentary on problematic mortgage practices. These weighty themes provide a door through which new conversations can hopefully take place, about how those dark legacies live on today. However, the use of sickening trauma and a fragmented plot prove to be less successful than its ambitious social messaging.

Like Them? Try these other horror titles by Black storytellers.

Grade: BLiAugust 16, 2021