Somebody check in on HBO and see if it needs a hug. The network’s recent slate of original shows has been unrelentingly bleak. There was the final, dark-to-the-point-of-indecipherable season of Game Of Thrones. The disturbing and increasingly less comic sophomore run of Barry. The premiere of the “kids are all on drugs and having indiscriminate sex” show Euphoria. And, of course, the relatively uplifting toxic-waste docudrama Chernobyl.
These are grim (and often great!) shows for a grim time marked by climate change, rising white nationalism, and political gridlock. But the bleakest depiction of modern life to come out of HBO in 2019 — at least until Watchmen comes out — might in fact be in Succession, which returns Sunday for a second season. More than any other prestige drama on the network (or, really, on any other platform) Succession tries to take on the full scope of how America’s core institutions are rotting from the inside. The first five episodes previewed for critics include references to collapsing media companies, the mainstreaming of fascist-sympathizers, the reactionary growth of Antifa, the insurmountable divide between and left and right-wing ideologues, the pernicious indifference of the one percent to widespread public suffering and … my goodness, who wants a drink?
It’s to Succession‘s credit that it never feels preachy or heavy-handed, even with the copious references to Shakespeare (along with outright quotes). Succession‘s no-holds-barred, bitingly savage take on the battling Roy family — a stand-in for Rupert Murdoch’s media-conquering clan, with a stronger dash of the Trumps freshly added for the new season — is spiked with a cutting wit that leaves bitter laughs stuck in your throat. It’s an absorbing, captivating watch, though the bruises it leaves behind are more painful than ever.
In the first season, Succession was like Billions meets Veep, a soap-y, quotable takedown of the ultra-rich with rapid-fire patter that veered toward the vulgar and gleefully cruel. Even with those aforementioned furrowed-brow Shakespearian overtones, it was a fun summer watch. The second season, however, is both brilliant and cynical to the point of caustic. “Fun” is no longer a word that applies. “Sardonic” is better. Succession has become a requiem for capitalism, the family unit, and general human decency. It’s not just whistling past the graveyard. It’s an entertaining, New Orleans-style funeral march.