In an age where prestige television often mistakes volume for depth, Succession has spent four seasons doing something far more dangerous: holding a mirror up to the 0.0001 % and daring them to flinch. With the complete series now streaming (and re-streaming, and re-re-streaming) on every conceivable platform, Apatman No:26 felt it was finally time to stop whispering about Jesse Armstrong’s masterpiece in dimly lit bars and start shouting from the rooftops of our collective existential dread.
Let’s be honest: Succession was never really about who would inherit Waystar Royco. It was about watching four of the most emotionally malformed adult children in television history claw at the corpse of their father’s empire while pretending they weren’t also clawing at the corpse of their childhoods. Kendall, Shiv, Roman, and poor doomed Cousin Greg aren’t heirs; they’re heir-looms, polished antiques passed down with the quiet instruction: “Break if you can.”
What makes the final season (and yes, we’re going there, no spoilers beyond the emotional carnage) one of the great cinematic achievements of the streaming era is how ruthlessly it refuses catharsis. Armstrong and his writers treat closure the way Logan Roy treated affection: with a sneer and a backhanded compliment. Every time you think someone might finally grow a spine, the show yanks the football away and leaves you flat on your back, laughing through the pain. It’s Chekhov’s gun loaded with daddy issues.
Visually, the series reaches its apex in season four’s cold, metallic palette (boardrooms that look like tombs, private jets that feel like confessionals, and that unforgettable funeral episode shot with the hushed reverence of a Renaissance painting). Mark Mylod and Andrij Parekh turn money into mood: marble floors that echo like guilt, panoramic Manhattan views that somehow feel claustrophobic, and a recurring motif of glass walls that let the Roys see everything except themselves.
And the performances? We’re beyond praise at this point. Jeremy Strong’s Kendall is a walking nervous breakdown in Tom Ford. Sarah Snook’s Shiv weaponizes charm the way others weaponize knives. Kieran Culkin’s Roman delivers the funniest lines in television history while somehow making you want to hug him through the screen (then immediately regret it). Matthew Macfadyen’s Tom Wambsgans completes one of the most humiliating, hilarious, and weirdly heroic arcs in modern drama. These aren’t actors playing billionaires; they’re billionaires who somehow learned to act.
Succession ends not with a bang, not with a whimper, but with the hollow sound of a deal closing. It’s the rare show that understands power isn’t about winning; it’s about making sure everyone else loses worse than you do. In 2025, when half the planet is doom-scrolling through late-stage capitalism’s greatest hits, the Roys feel less like satire and more like prophecy.
So yes, watch it again. Pause on Roman’s face when he realizes jokes won’t save him this time. Rewind Shiv’s wedding speech until it hurts. Let Kendall’s “I am the eldest boy” break something inside you that was already cracked.
Because in the end, Succession isn’t about the 1 %. It’s about what happens when you realize you’ve spent your entire life trying to become someone who never loved you in the first place.
And darling, that’s the most universal story of all.
The full series is streaming now. Enter at your own risk. The Roy family is waiting, and they still don’t take no for an answer.
