Umbrella Academy is a wild ride based on comic by Gerard Way and Gabriel Bá. It follows seven gifted siblings, all adopted by a quirky billionaire, Sir Reginald Hargreeves. Each has a superpower. Years later, they come together to figure out their father’s death and stop an apocalypse. It is all about family drama, time travel and humor. This show mixes supernatural fun with real emotions, making it a must-watch.

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Hazel

Hazel is the soft-spoken heart of the chaos, the guy who always looks like he’s late to a very calm protest. He’s patient and kind in this weirdly resigned way, like someone who’s made peace with terrible things but still hums while doing it. There’s this adorable habit of him tucking a stray thread behind his ear and maybe, maybe keeping an old jazz record in his coat pocket (I’m not sure which pocket—left? right?). He’s quietly moral but also quietly exhausted, and you get the sense he’d adopt a puppy on impulse and then be the best, most tired dad in the world.

Vanya

Vanya is way more than the quiet violinist trope — she’s volatile, brilliant, painfully vulnerable, and also unexpectedly funny when she tries to be normal. There’s a simmering intensity about her that can be both heartbreaking and kind of terrifying (like a storm that also brings really good bread). She wants to belong so badly it hurts, which makes her reckless in the most tragic, relatable ways, and she has a tendency to rearrange books by color when nervous. You can’t help but root for her even when she’s doing something catastrophic, because she’s real and messy and full of music.

Five

Five is the tiny, furious murder machine who’s somehow also an ancient man trapped in a teenager’s body — the best worst combo ever. He’s razor-sharp, obsessive about timelines (and also he’ll twirl a pencil like a tiny dictator), and he runs everything with this exhausted efficiency that’s kind of admirable and terrifying. He’s bitter about youth and older than everyone’s patience, but also weirdly sentimental about old gum wrappers? (Okay that last part might be me projecting.) Basically: strategic genius + chronic exasperation + the kind of loyalty that’ll get you through an apocalypse if you don’t annoy him.

Sir Reginald Hargreeves

Sir Reginald is the icy, brilliant patriarch who treats children like clockwork and feelings like inconvenient noise. He’s supremely controlling, obsessed with order, cataloging, and the idea of legacy — and he has this old-school, slightly alien vibe, like a man who collects rare compasses and never laughs. He’s distant but oddly charismatic in a terrifying way, like someone who says “I love you” by correcting your posture. Also, weirdly, he probably writes stern little notes to himself in fountain pen, which is both menacing and quaint.

Five

Alright, another take on Five because you can’t have him once and be satisfied — this time he’s less grumpy and more apocalyptic librarian. He schedules the end of the world like it’s a weekly chore and yet, somehow, still has time to scold people about breakfast cereal choices. He’s the kind of person who remembers the exact date of a catastrophe and also the brand of coffee he drank that morning (maybe). Underneath the sarcasm is loyalty so deep it hurts, which is why he snaps so easily at the people who deserve his fierce protection.

Leonard

Leonard is the weirdly charming maybe-creepy guy with a smile that makes you uneasy five minutes later — he’s polite, soft-spoken, but also disconcertingly relentless. He plays the “nice friend” card with the kind of dedication that would win awards, and then quietly pulls threads until things unravel (gross but also fascinating). He collects tiny, dumb things like novelty erasers and will probably offer you tea while plotting something vaguely poetic and very dangerous. There’s this small, nervous energy about him, like someone who hums indie music under their breath and has a hidden scrapbook of bad decisions.

Five

Okay last Five blurb because he’s fun to over-describe — he’s basically a walking paradox: formal, violent, and weirdly tender about receipts. He moves like someone who’s memorized a million exits, and talks like he’s constantly late to a funeral he’s responsible for planning. He can be cruel in the most efficient way, but also the first to show up when it actually matters (begrudgingly, with a thermos). Honestly, he’s like a grumpy rose — sharp thorns, but lovely if you ignore the bleeding.

Allison

Allison is glamorous, dramatic, and carries truth like a weapon in a sequined clutch — she says things and the universe listens (which is both amazing and entirely too much responsibility). She’s got that celebrity energy: confident, a little self-aware, with a habit of telling the best stories at parties while definitely forgetting where she left her keys. She wrestles with guilt and power and fame, and you can tell she loves being adored, even when it eats her up inside (classic). Also, she probably keeps a lipstick for every mood and will absolutely use it to assert dominance in a very stylish way.

Allison

Another take because she’s complicated — Allison is the rumor-wielding, emotionally messy sister who can change reality with a sentence and then cry about the consequences later. She’s charming and performative and also deeply, messily human, like someone who posts perfect photos and then texts you at 2 a.m. asking for help. She hates losing control but also kind of craves the spotlight (don’t we all?), and she has this tendency to binge old sitcoms when avoiding feelings. You’re not sure whether to adore or fear her, which is exactly the point.

Klaus

Klaus is a walking carnival of grief and bravado, part medium, part party trick, all heart — and he’s deeply dramatic in the best possible way. He talks to the dead like they’re his messy friends and shows up to crisis with glitter and bad decisions, but also a tenderness that will crack you open. He’s unpredictable (one minute a conga line, the next sobbing into a half-empty bottle), and he owns like seven feather boas despite being possibly allergic? (I mean, who knows.) He is painfully flawed and utterly lovable, like someone who can ruin your day and then sing you back to sleep.

Klaus

Yep, another Klaus because he deserves multiple paragraphs of weirdness — he’s the emotional weather system of the group, one moment sunny and ridiculous, the next a full-on existential thunderstorm. He’s unapologetically theatrical, addicted to attention, and somehow wise in ways he refuses to advertise. He collects ghosts like some people collect postcards and will give you the best/messed-up pep talk at exactly the wrong time. Also he probably names inanimate objects and cries at commercials — don’t judge, join the crying.