Greed Is Good… for TV Drama

By Brian Lowry
Artwork by Barbara Kruger

Gordon Gekko, the amoral investor in Oliver Stone’s Wall Street, got it partly right when he said, “Greed is good.” Greed might not be beneficial to society, as Michael Douglas’ character argued, but in recent times, it has certainly helped produce good TV.

Granted, greed has taken many 21st-century iterations in television that Gekko scarcely could have imagined back in 1987, among them an abundance of unscripted shows, from the Real Housewives franchise to game shows (including one called Greed, which Fox aired in 1999 as its answer to ABC’s Who Wants to Be a Millionaire) to what amounts to real-estate porn. Moreover, programming touching on wealth and class issues now originates around the globe, with a particularly rich vein of South Korean fare punctuated by Squid Game, which has found a highly receptive audience in the U.S. and internationally over three cutthroat seasons on Netflix.

When it comes to scripted drama, Succession, the recent three-time Emmy winner as outstanding drama series has emerged as the poster child for attitudes toward the uber-rich in the C-suite. The HBO show also highlighted the wide range of behavior that might fall under the broad “greed” heading, from those desperate for money (see Squid Game) to those climbing the corporate ladder (Industry) to those either striving for or barely clinging to suburban bliss—a theme that runs through a host of shows, including The White Lotus, Your Friends & Neighbors, and No Good Deed.

Not surprisingly, the most unsettling look at modern capitalism, Severance, weds distrust of the corporate class with technology—specifically, a company so committed to its bottom line that it devises a high-tech surgical means to sever employees’ memories of what happens outside of work so they can pursue their office life unimpeded by thoughts unrelated to their jobs. As the Apple TV+ series suggests, what better way to ensure the wholesale pursuit of the almighty dollar than eradicating pesky distractions, like home and family, in the name of a more perfect work-life balance?

The exploration of wealth and status in television is nothing new—think back to the frothy soaps of the 1970s, ‘80s and ‘90s such as Dallas, Dynasty, and Beverly Hills, 90210—but the genre has grown more complex and nuanced in the streaming age.

Lately, shows have included more pointed considerations about the widening divisions between economic classes. Squid Game—inspired by the lingering effects of the 2010s financial crisis in South Korea—became a surprise worldwide sensation in 2021 that tapped into fears about income and class inequality that have become even more pronounced in recent years. In its second season, the show revisited that desperation though its impact was blunted by a steadfast focus on the have-nots and not the shadowy haves who financed the deadly competition. 

Other series have found distinctive ways to explore the same dynamic. HBO’s The Gilded Age, which returned for its third season in June, looks to historical precedent by zooming in on the tension between old and new money in 1880s New York, when robber barons tried to top each other with their lavish personal spending. The network’s lamentably finished behemoth Succession, meanwhile, focused on a deeply dysfunctional media family—inspired in part by Rupert Murdoch and his progeny—that seemed to be ripped from recent headlines. Over its four seasons, the show dissected the gap between those who grew up with wealth—specifically, heirs to a corporate fortune who were born on third base and convinced that they’d hit a triple—and those who must climb the economic ladder themselves, including distant relatives like gawky cousin Greg and romantic partners who married into the family. 

Consider the Roy family’s treatment of Tom (Matthew Macfadyen), who’s granted relatively high-level jobs in the Roy-controlled conglomerate thanks to his marriage to ambitious first daughter, Shiv, but is just as easily dismissed and ridiculed because he so nakedly covets what they already have. As digital media strategist Elizabeth Spiers observed in The New York Times, “Power and money are fine if you have them already. It’s wanting to acquire them that’s the problem.”

Still, greed, and its various implications, aren’t confined to the uber-rich. In Netflix’s No Good Deed, the sale of a house in L.A.’s Los Feliz neighborhood unleashes the worst impulses in a swath of potential buyers (while also exposing a central mystery about the sellers), reinforcing the lengths to which people will go to secure their claim to the American dream. Many recent shows depict greed as less about getting what you don’t already have than hanging onto what you currently do. Take the rich investor (Jon Hamm) who turns to crime to sustain his lavish lifestyle in Apple TV+’s Your Friends & Neighbors. He counts on the fact that everyone in his personal circle is so rich that they might not even notice if a $250,000 watch goes missing. 

Hamm’s Andrew “Coop” Cooper has much in common with a key figure in last season’s The White Lotus, an heir to Succession that also shares some Squid Game DNA in its rumination about the divide between the high-class patrons of a resort hotel chain and those tasked with serving them. Like Cooper, Jason Isaac’s Timothy Ratliff operates outside the law to preserve what he has, while hiding the threat of losing it from everyone close. Unbeknownst to his wife and kids, he’s on the brink of arrest for financial crimes. As the screws tighten through a series of increasingly urgent calls and messages from back home, he begins to ponder extreme lengths to protect not only his reputation but that of his entire family—convinced that his brood has become so accustomed to their private-suite lifestyle that depriving them of that blanket of comfort seems unimaginable. 

Admittedly, series creator Mike White’s vision isn’t as dystopian as the idea of the cash-strapped betting their lives to pursue financial lifelines, all for the entertainment of one-percenters who view human sacrifices as the ultimate form of entertainment. It’s not a huge leap, however, from the challenges facing Squid Game contestants to those of White Lotus employees charged with pampering their well-heeled clientele.

Historically, much of TV viewing has been aspirational, offering regular viewers glimpses into well-manicured lives behind high gates. Early TV hits like Queen for a Day rewarded women for sharing their hard-luck stories, while the syndicated ‘80s hit Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous documented the fabulousness of mansions and VIP rooms. In the 2000s, The Apprentice burnished Donald Trump’s image as a titan of industry and paragon of ostentatious wealth, with considerable creative license thanks to the producing acumen of Survivor producer Mark Burnett.

While most of these shows focused on the symbols of wealth, their underlying dramatic appeal centered on what a sizable bank account allows people to do—and get away with. In the case of The White Lotus and Succession, that includes murder. 

For those on the other side of the wealth gap, there’s comfort in seeing the rich grappling with the “More money, more problems” part of that equation. Sure, they might have fancy cars and live in mansions, but they can still be as messed up and miserable as the rest of us.

Having money is one thing, but there’s a consistent thread running through these shows, beyond their voyeuristic appeal. True happiness can remain elusive, in a way that reinforces the often yawning gap between economic privilege and character. Or as Parker Posey’s oft-quoted mother in The White Lotus puts it, “Just because people are rich doesn’t mean they’re not trashy.”

The Art of Greed
Barbara Kruger

We know Barbara Krugrer’s art when we see it. Big, bold words that put their finger on the most pressing issues we experience. What we like (shopping, fashion, entertainment) and what we want (power, money, control). She often employs photographs—black and white, grainy, enlarged—overprinted with white text on bands of bright red. 

In 1993, she published Remote Control, a collection of essays addressing who has power to speak and whose voice is heard. A frequent topic was the form and content of television, from personalities like Bob Barker, Johnny Carson and Pee-wee Herman to shows like Dallas, The Simpsons and Saturday Night Live. In one piece, she dissects Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. “Television’s penchant for evacuating meanings and roughing up the mechanics of transference and identification plays havoc with the viewer’s actual positioning,” she writes, noting that viewers can either watch on-screen excess with “distanced amusement” or “project madly into the melee.” 

The Reagan-era seductions Kruger critiqued in Remote Control are just as prevalent today. Kruger draws us in with her words and images only to highlight the disparities–of the Western world. She captures our insatiable hunger for more, all the time, while reminding us to be vigilant about where that pursuit will lead us. —Rochelle Steiner