Os Originais reminds us that the most terrifying thing in the world isn't death. It's living forever with the people you love—and hate—the most.
In the pantheon of supernatural television, spin-offs are often viewed with skepticism. They carry the weight of beloved predecessors while struggling to justify their own existence. But then came Os Originais ( The Originals ). Premiering in 2013 as a departure from The Vampire Diaries , this show didn’t just walk out of its parent series’ shadow; it burned that shadow to the ground and built a kingdom from the ashes.
Set against the soulful, intoxicating backdrop of New Orleans—a city where jazz, witchcraft, and death dance in the streets— Os Originais transcended the teen drama tropes of its origin. It was never about high school crushes or prom nights. It was about family as a curse, power as a burden, and the terrifying question of whether immortality makes you a god or a monster. Os Originais
If you only watch one supernatural drama from the 2010s, let it be this one. It’s bloody, poetic, and utterly unforgettable. Long live the King of New Orleans.
It is not a perfect show—some middle seasons meander, and the final season, while emotional, was rushed. Yet, when you watch Klaus Mikaelson walk through the French Quarter in a dark suit, a smirk playing on his lips as jazz music swells, you understand: this is the definitive vampire myth for adults. Os Originais reminds us that the most terrifying
The introduction of the witch Davina Claire and, most powerfully, the regent Marcel Gerard (Klaus’s adopted son turned rival) creates a Shakespearean level of political intrigue. But the series’ secret weapon is the character of . From the moment she is conceived—a miracle impossible for vampires—the show shifts from a story about surviving the past to one about protecting the future. The father-daughter dynamic between Klaus and Hope is the emotional core that allows the darkness to feel meaningful.
Unlike most horror dramas where the goal is to become human, Os Originais argues that embracing the monster can be a form of love. It is a show about parenthood, legacy, and the immigrant experience of building a home in a hostile land. The dialogue is sharp, the betrayals are visceral, and the deaths are permanent and painful. They carry the weight of beloved predecessors while
Elijah, the "noble" brother, provides the show’s moral spine, though a spine that bends under the weight of his family’s sins. Rebekah, the eternally young sister, aches for a normal life she can never have. Together, they form a dysfunctional, murderous unit bound by a simple, devastating code: Always and Forever.
At its heart, the show is a ruthless, beautiful examination of the Mikaelsons. Unlike the brooding, guilty vampires of other shows, the Originals are the "big bad" of vampire lore. They are the first of their kind: indestructible, paranoid, and profoundly broken.
What elevates Os Originais is its world-building. New Orleans isn’t just a setting; it is a character. The show dives deep into a tripartite power struggle: the Vampires (the Mikaelsons), the Witches (the French Quarter Coven), and the Werewolves (the bayou packs).
Klaus Mikaelson, the Hybrid, is one of television’s great anti-heroes. Played with volcanic charisma by Joseph Morgan, Klaus is a creature of immense violence and even more immense vulnerability. He is a narcissist terrified of abandonment, an artist who paints bloodshed. The show’s genius lies in refusing to redeem him completely. Instead, it asks us to love him because of his contradictions, not in spite of them.