Mirror mirror on the wall, who's the most powerful patriarch of them all?
Documenting the bad behaviors of the superrich is a pastime as old as civilization—and one this magazine has been faithfully doing with wit, humor, and glee for 175 years. And mining their foibles for the small screen has proved, time and again, to be TV gold. (Arrested Development, Dynasty, Billions, Dallas, Empire, Odd Mom Out, The White Lotus, the list goes on.)
Lately the harvest has been particularly plentiful thanks to two of the best "rich people problems" shows on TV right now: Succession, whose third season premiered last month, and Yellowstone, now three weeks into its fourth. That they air one after the other on Sunday nights—Yellowstone at 8 p.m. ET on Paramount, Succession at 9 p.m. on HBO—further sweetens this package deal.
Should you belong in the very small camp of people unfamiliar with either, a brief primer. In Succession, which is an Emmy-winning, critically acclaimed darling, a corrupt billionaire lording over a vast media and entertainment empire grapples with supreme family dysfunction, incompetent and disloyal adult children, and major threats to his kingdom. Now just swap the words "media and entertainment" for "cattle ranching" and that's the gist of Yellowstone, which ended season 3 last year as the highest-rated show on cable and beat its own record earlier this month when season 4's premiere drew in a staggering 14.7 million viewers.
Their styles may vary—Succession is a viciously satirical comedy of errors; Yellowstone is a more earnest, and very violent, action-drama—but at the heart of each series is an aging stubborn-as-hell patriarch (Brian Cox as Logan Roy in the former, Kevin Costner as John Dutton in the latter) confronting a crumbling empire, the erosion of his time-honored way of life, and his own legacy and mortality, while his kids circle like vultures, greedy for power and desperate for daddy's approval. To put it simply, Yellowstone is Succession set in the Wild West, which comes with its own specific code of conduct. (Spoilers ahead for both series.)
Let's just say that while Logan may slay his enemies with a combination of corporate takeovers, blackmail, shady dealmaking, fake news, and an oft-growled "fuck off," John tends to take the literal approach. It's a method that has proved so reliable—and consequence-free—that he and his cowboy capos even have a preferred cliff on the Montana-Wyoming border for discarding the dead and a handy euphemism for the task ("take them to the train station"). Or as Logan would say, "NRPI: no real person involved." The Roys themselves have largely operated scot-free, too—their body count is incomparable to that of the Duttons but they still have blood on their hands.
As for Logan and John's respective kids, similarities abound. Their eldest sons have no place in the line of succession: Connor is pathologically delusional while Lee, John's would-be heir, died in the pilot. Then the sons who should take over the family business are just not smart enough, have very little killer instinct, and even less loyalty. Logan's Judas is Kendall, who is on coup d'état attempt number two; John has Jamie, who leaked deep, dark family secrets to a journalist and suspiciously was the only one left unscathed by the recent hit taken out on the Duttons. Then there are daddy's little girls, Shiv and Beth—each as cruel and calculating as her father, if perhaps lacking quite a bit of emotional control. And finally, Roman and Kayce: if there is anyone among the Roy or Dutton siblings with real heart and a semblance of a conscience, it's these two.
When it comes to wealth, who's richer? Logan, as the rags-to-riches founder of a colossal media, entertainment, cruises, and parks conglomerate, has often been compared to a Rupert Murdoch-level titan in both net worth and temperament. The Roys' preference for understated wardrobes (as in, Brunello Cucinelli) and their indifference to material one-percenter accoutrements notwithstanding (Logan casually gives away a Patek Philippe gift from son-in-law Tom to a groundskeeper), they still routinely travel in two Sikorsky helicopters and multiple private jets (the prospect of losing the PJs horrifies Roman); own palatial residences in New York, the Hamptons, and London; and spend holidays aboard their superyacht.
John's wealth is a little harder to quantify. He's the sixth-generation owner of what is now the largest ranch in the United States, and it is land so incredibly valuable that developers are willing to pay him billions for it. In fact, these big city investors and private equity douchebags in ravenous pursuit of his hundreds of thousands of acres of pristine real estate probably run in the same circles as the Roys. That John's entire net worth is tied to his ranch—not to mention the rising property taxes and maintenance expenses—may make him cash poor but those are some pretty formidable assets.
When it comes to political influence, the two men are also on par. Logan has a direct line to POTUS, whom he calls the Raisin, and brags of his ability to seat whoever he wants in the Oval Office. John, meanwhile, is having an affair with the governor, makes Jamie the attorney general, and has Kayce inherit his post as livestock commissioner, which, apparently in this part of the world, is akin to being the chief of police. If, subscribing to the stance of Yellowstone, there is no place as purely American as Montana, nowhere more important or influential or genuine than here in the land of salt-of-the-earth cowboys, then John is its king.
Despite their many parallels, Succession and Yellowstone diverge in one crucial way: point of view. We're instructed to love to hate the Roys and hate to love the Duttons. In a Yellowstone episode last season, Beth expounds her views on morality. Unsurprisingly she subscribes to Nietzsche's school of thought: there's no such thing as right or wrong, good or evil, only "in destroying anything that wants to kill what you love." This could well be both Dutton and Roy family mottos.
But for Logan and his kids, this philosophy is exactly what makes them paragons of moral decrepitude. Succession is absolutely savage towards its protagonists. In the frame of Yellowstone, on the other hand, this kind of lawless attitude becomes something completely different: a noble pursuit. Whatever atrocities John and co. commit are justified and validated, even glorified, because they are doing it in service of good ol' fashioned American values: hard work, herding cattle, rodeos, loyalty, rugged machismo, cowboy justice, don't take what's mine and I won't kill you. (John never seems to lose sleep over the fact that the land he believes is rightfully his was stolen from Native Americans, but hey—Nietzsche, right?)
Whether despicable or admirable, these two men's existential plights are much the same. Beth, once again, perfectly sums it up. In the premiere of Yellowstone's current season, she meets a 14-year-old boy outside the hospital where John is recovering from the shooting. The kid says his dad is dying. "Yeah, so is mine," counters Beth. From what?
"The 21st century."
Watch Seasons 1-3 of Yellowstone on Peacock
Leena Kim is an editor at Town & Country, where she covers travel, jewelry, education, weddings, and culture.
