Horror usually lets you off the hook. You get a jump scare, a masked killer, maybe a ghost that disappears when the lights flicker on. But Little Marvin’s anthology series on Prime Video doesn't do that. When people talk about them tv series episodes, they aren't usually talking about ghosts. Well, they are, but the ghosts aren't the part that keeps you up at night. It’s the sheer, grinding weight of the human cruelty.
The show is polarizing. Honestly, it’s beyond polarizing. Some critics called the first season, Covenant, "trauma porn." Others saw it as a brutal, necessary mirror. Whatever side you land on, you can't deny the technical craft. From the Stepford-on-acid color palette of 1950s Compton in Season 1 to the gritty, smog-choked Los Angeles of 1991 in Season 2, The Scare, the show uses the anthology format to track how evil mutates over time.
The Episode Everyone Still Arguments About
If you’ve seen Season 1, you know the one. Episode 5, "Covenant II." It’s the "Cat-in-the-Bag" episode. It is, quite frankly, one of the most controversial hours of television released in the last decade. It features a level of visceral, agonizing violence against a Black family—specifically an infant—that many viewers found unforgivable.
The debate around them tv series episodes like this usually boils down to intent. Little Marvin has argued in various interviews that the horror of the Black experience in America isn't a "fun" slasher movie. It’s a nightmare. By making the violence so repulsive, the show refuses to let the audience enjoy the spectacle. You aren't supposed to eat popcorn during Them. You’re supposed to want to look away.
But did it go too far?
Many Black viewers and critics, like those writing for The Hollywood Reporter and Vulture, pointed out that Black audiences already know this pain. They don't need it recreated with high-end cinematography to understand it. This creates a weird tension in the viewership. You have a show that is meticulously directed and acted—Deborah Ayorinde is a powerhouse—but the content is so heavy it feels like a physical weight.
How Season 2 Shifted the Narrative
Then came The Scare. Most people didn't expect a second season after the three-year gap. But when those them tv series episodes dropped in 2024, the vibe changed.
The setting jumped to 1991. LAPD Detective Dawn Reeve, played again by Ayorinde (though as a new character), investigates a series of gruesome murders. It feels more like a traditional supernatural slasher at first. Think Candyman meets Seven. It’s still about racism—it’s the era of the Rodney King beating, after all—but the "monster" is more literal.
The "Tap Dance Man" from Season 1 was a manifestation of systemic rot. The "Raggedy Man" in Season 2 feels like a bridge between that systemic horror and the classic "boogeyman" tropes we see in Blumhouse films. This shift made the second season much more "watchable" for a general audience, even if it lost some of the raw, jagged edge that made the first season so divisive.
The Visual Language of the Episodes
One thing you have to give the creators: the show looks incredible. The cinematography isn't just "good for TV." It’s cinematic.
In Season 1, the Emory family moves into a pristine white neighborhood. The houses are too bright. The lawns are too green. The sun is too yellow. It’s an aggressive kind of beauty that feels like a threat. When the them tv series episodes transition into the "supernatural" realm, the camera work gets dizzying. Wide-angle lenses make the hallways look infinite. The sound design uses high-pitched, discordant strings that grate on your nerves.
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In Season 2, the palette shifts to browns, grays, and deep reds. It’s claustrophobic. The horror comes from the shadows, not the bright daylight. This evolution shows a showrunner who is deeply in love with the history of the genre, even as he tries to subvert it.
Breakdown of the Anthology Structure
- Season 1: Covenant (1950s): Focuses on the Great Migration. The Emory family moves from North Carolina to Los Angeles. The horror is localized to a single street and the entities living in the basement.
- Season 2: The Scare (1990s): Focuses on the LAPD and the foster care system. It’s a procedural horror. The scope is wider, moving across the city of LA.
- The Connection: While the stories are separate, Season 2 delivers a massive "aha!" moment in the final episodes that connects the two timelines through bloodlines and inherited trauma.
Why We Keep Watching (And Why Some Can't)
There’s a concept in psychology called "controlled dread." Most horror fans love it. It’s the thrill of being scared while knowing you’re safe on your couch.
But them tv series episodes often break that safety seal. Because the show uses real-world trauma—segregation, police brutality, the "redlining" of neighborhoods—it prevents that psychological distance. When a ghost jumps out, you know it’s fake. When a neighbor in the 1950s burns a cross on a lawn, you know that happened. It’s still happening in different ways.
That’s the core of the friction. If you're looking for a "fun" horror binge, this isn't it. But if you want something that uses the genre to dissect the American psyche, Them is almost peerless. It’s a hard watch. It’s meant to be.
Technical Mastery and the Cast
We have to talk about Deborah Ayorinde. To lead two different seasons of a show this intense is a massive feat. In Covenant, she plays Lucky Emory with a frantic, maternal desperation that is exhausting to witness. In The Scare, she plays Dawn Reeve with a cold, professional steel that slowly cracks as the supernatural elements creep in.
And then there's Luke James in Season 2. His performance as Edmund Gaines is genuinely unsettling. He captures that "lonely guy who might be a serial killer" energy so perfectly it makes your skin crawl before anything even happens.
The direction also deserves a nod. Ti West, a modern horror legend (director of X and Pearl), directed several of them tv series episodes. You can feel his influence in the slow-burn pacing. He doesn't rush the scares. He lets the silence sit until it becomes unbearable.
The Legacy of the Series
Where does Them sit in the pantheon of "social horror"?
It’s often compared to Jordan Peele’s work (Get Out, Us), but that’s a bit of a lazy comparison. Peele’s work usually has a streak of satire or dark humor. Them has almost zero humor. It is relentlessly bleak. It’s closer in spirit to Lovecraft Country, but without the pulpy adventure elements.
The show’s legacy will likely be its refusal to compromise. It didn't "tone it down" for Season 2, even after the backlash. It just refocused. It moved the conversation from "what people did to each other" to "what people leave behind for their children."
Actionable Takeaways for Viewers
If you’re planning on diving into these episodes, here’s how to handle it without losing your mind:
- Don't binge it. Seriously. The emotional toll of Season 1 is heavy. Give yourself a day or two between episodes to decompress.
- Watch Season 2 even if you hated Season 1. They are very different beasts. Season 2 leans much harder into the "mystery" and "slasher" aspects, which might be more your speed if the first season felt too much like a history lesson in pain.
- Pay attention to the background. The show is famous for putting things in the corners of the frame. The entities often stand perfectly still in the distance while the characters are talking.
- Research the history. Understanding things like the "Green Book" or the history of Compton will make the stakes feel much higher. It’s not just "mean neighbors"; it’s a system designed to keep the family out.
- Check the content warnings. This isn't just a "contains violence" kind of show. It contains specific types of trauma that can be genuinely triggering for people. Know your limits.
The show isn't for everyone. It’s loud, it’s angry, and it’s beautifully shot. It’s a reminder that sometimes the most terrifying thing isn't the monster under the bed, but the person living next door or the badge on a uniform. Whether it’s 1952 or 1991, the episodes suggest that the past isn't really past—it’s just waiting for a reason to wake up again.
If you want to understand the modern landscape of horror, you have to reckon with Them. It’s a polarizing, difficult, and technically brilliant piece of art that refuses to let its audience off easy.