Premiering on HBO in June 2018, Succession ran for four seasons, culminating in 39 episodes of razor-sharp drama. The series, created by Jesse Armstrong, explores the cutthroat world of media moguls through the lens of the Roy family—a dysfunctional dynasty of billionaires grasping for power and approval.
With its Emmy-winning scripts and unforgettable performances, Succession became one of the most critically acclaimed dramas of its era. Anchored by powerhouse turns from Brian Cox and Jeremy Strong, and bolstered by a stellar ensemble, the show balances dark humor with character-driven tragedy. This Succession review breaks down what makes the show tick, including our signature woke rating assessment.
While Succession occasionally tiptoes into modern progressive territory, it does so with an ironic sneer rather than a sermon. Shiv Roy is a strong female character, but she's flawed, cynical, and ruthlessly realistic—not a Mary Sue. The series often mocks millennial wokeness and virtue signaling through characters like Kendall and Roman, both of whom adopt buzzwords with transparent insincerity.
There are moments where identity politics slip in—certain hires and boardroom moments feel like nods to diversity box-ticking—but these are brief and usually shown as strategic, not ideological. The show's dominant worldview is bleak realism: power, not principles, rules this world. As such, Succession earns a 4/5 woke rating. It's not completely clean, but the show rarely indulges woke messaging without turning it inside out.
The brilliance of Succession lies in its characters' psychological complexity. Logan Roy towers over the narrative as a patriarch who both commands and corrupts. Brian Cox's performance grounds the show in primal authority, embodying old-world ruthlessness confronting a soft, confused generation.
Each of the Roy children is broken in a unique, fascinating way:
But it's Tom Wambsgans, played with pitch-perfect discomfort by Matthew Macfadyen, who emerges as a tragicomic masterpiece. His hunger for legitimacy and proximity to power is both hilarious and heartbreaking. Watching these figures crash into one another, driven by trauma, ambition, and neglect, is the show's greatest strength.
Succession is less a story than a meditation—on legacy, generational decline, and the cold machinery of capitalism. The show's true subject is not business but dysfunction: how power warps identity, family, and ethics.
Themes of betrayal, performative loyalty, and hollow legacy echo throughout. Every tender moment is transactional. Every alliance is a ticking time bomb. The show expertly illustrates how dynastic wealth corrodes human bonds, and how the pursuit of legacy often ensures its destruction.
This slow collapse, rendered with operatic flair and acidic wit, gives the show its rich texture. It's a tragic comedy of manners dressed in boardroom armor—a world where every hug hides a knife.
Visually, Succession rejects glamour. Its handheld, documentary-style camera creates a sense of constant instability. The zooms feel invasive, exposing fragility beneath the designer suits. Stark lighting and desaturated tones strip away artifice, echoing the show's thematic bleakness.
The use of real locations—luxury offices, Manhattan penthouses, European castles—lends an authentic texture to the fantasy of obscene wealth. The score by Nicholas Britell is a standout: baroque strings laced with hip-hop rhythm, capturing the absurd majesty of the Roy family's chaos.
Cinematography here isn't flashy, but it is meticulous. Every pan and framing choice builds tension, emphasizing silence as much as speech. It's not beautiful in a traditional sense—it's rich, raw, and refined.
Jesse Armstrong's scripts are Succession's secret weapon. Witty, cutting, and economically layered, the dialogue veers from corporate speak to poetic venom in seconds. Lines become weapons. Sarcasm conceals desperation.
Characters rarely say what they mean, and when they do, it's devastating. This is writing that rewards attention. Each episode unfurls like a Shakespearean act, complete with betrayal, monologues, and moments of pitch-black comedy.
What's more, the show's rhythm—its pacing, structure, and balance between silence and speech—feels surgical. It walks the tightrope between satire and tragedy with near-perfect balance. Few shows understand the power of subtext like this one.
Succession stands as a modern television classic—a scathing dissection of power, family, and failure. Its few moments of political posturing are dwarfed by its commitment to character, craft, and critique. The woke elements are minor, often ridiculed, and never dominate the storytelling.
For viewers who appreciate sharp writing, layered performances, and narratives that trust the audience's intelligence, Succession is essential viewing. It's Shakespeare by way of Silicon Valley, with the poetic misery of wealth as both gift and curse.
With a rare mix of satire, substance, and soul, Succession leaves behind a legacy that, unlike its characters', actually deserves to be remembered.
