LIFE IS COMEDY for the rich and tragedy for the poor, according to the old adage. But some storytellers would rather not choose between the two. See, for instance, everyone's favorite (or favourite, if you will) HBO hit, Succession. Though the show's a two-time winner of the outstanding-drama-series Emmy, it isn't just about backstabbing and maneuvering. The show's focus on the inanity of billionaire life is what makes it tick—and makes clear that at its heart, Succession is really more of a farce.

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Need proof? Season four of Succession kicked off with a premiere that was more joke-filled than a Saturday Night Live sketch. While the Roy kids engaged once again in a witty tête-à-tête as they orchestrated yet another coup against their father, who really should have disowned them far earlier, Tom Wambsgans loosed a takedown of Greg's date that would have made even Joan Rivers clutch her pearls and left us reveling in his savagery.

If Succession were truly an American drama—the sort of post-Sopranos show we used to call "prestige TV"—its writers may have felt obliged to craft a plotline involving Greg's date using her "ludicrously capacious" bag to smuggle confidential Waystar Royco information and jeopardize the PGM deal. Instead, creator Jesse Armstrong (a Brit) and his cadre of British and American writers allowed her and her accessory to exist purely as vehicles for jokes—an enormous faux pas that Tom eviscerates with a flourish. Burberry totes may never recover.

This shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone familiar with Armstrong's previous work. A native of Shropshire, England, he's also a graduate of the University of Manchester, where he met his writing partner, Sam Bain. Together, they rose through the ranks of children's comedy and sketch comedy such as Smack the Pony before creating Peep Show (2003), a dark sitcom about Mark and Jez, unlikely best friends living together in Croydon. Peep Show immediately stood out for its use of point-of-view shots and inner monologues that would not just heighten awkward moments but immerse viewers right into them. Whether we watched Mark trying to hide from the youths terrorizing him outside his flat or saw Jez's sex-capades in the stark light of day, Armstrong and Bain didn't shy away from making viewers sit in their discomfort even as they laughed.

A flat in Croydon might seem worlds away from the helicopters and penthouses of New York, but Armstrong's penchant for mortification is woven through Succession as well. Watching Roman accidentally sext his father instead of Gerri a photo of his genitals is right up there with Peep Show's Mark bumping into Sophie after their catastrophic wedding while sporting ejaculate on his trousers from a quick tryst with a new colleague. Kendall's "L to the OG" rap at Logan's 50th-anniversary party for Waystar induces the same can't-watch-but-can't-not-watch squirms of Jez sucking jam from Sophie's mum's finger. Succession sends the familiar physical cringe of Peep Show shuddering up my spine.

The Roys can only TRULY BE EXPLORED by immersing us in the ITCHINESS AND ABSURDITY of their wealth, entitlement, and ambition.

You might think the death of the show's pugnacious patriarch would be a reprieve from the quips, but episode three may go down in TV history as a perfectly executed portrayal of the comedy of chaos in immediate grief (much of it filmed in one take). Emotions overflow in a tangled expulsion of tears, hugs, barbs, and devastation; unable to sit still or upright, Roman becomes even more of a floor child as Kendall suggests they get a funeral off the rack: "We can do Reagan's, with tweaks." Then there's Connor. He flips out over the wedding cake but we quickly learn the very sad roots of his fixation over the offending item, which he dubs "Looney Cake." It's the ultimate joke that the lanky, neurotic eldest Roy kid, always the most tragic of them, was going to have his one episode, "Connor's Wedding," overshadowed by his absent father's death in the sky above.

Logan's wake continues with the same jittery humor; with everyone vying for control of Waystar Royco, the claws are back out. Gerri tells Tom, our otherwise piquant player, to "put down that fish taco, you're getting your melancholy everywhere." And Marcia reclaims her role as the lady of the house: "We're calling Kerry a taxi to the subway so that she can go home to her little apartment." Even Peep Show's Mark would be jealous of that ice-cold jab.

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BRITISH COMEDY RARELY gets the opportunity to stand on its own with US audiences. Rather than being imported wholesale, Brit formats and sensibilities more often get a friendlier American makeover (a la the Stateside version of The Office) or are threaded into American stories, such as Armando Iannucci's Veep. Over 14 episodes of the original British Office, David Brent falls further into his tragedy, an emblem for the foibles of humankind. His Stateside equivalent, Michael Scott, gets 140-plus episodes to transform from loathed to loved.

But genres have been blurring for a while on both sides of the proverbial pond as singular creators keep shifting the boundaries of comedy and drama. Phoebe Waller-Bridge's Emmy-winning comedy Fleabag mined a woman's grief over losing her best friend to examine her messy life choices with raw authenticity and caustic wit, the lead character becoming a martyr (and jumpsuit queen) for millennial women tired of seeing cute "adorkable" portrayals of their generation onscreen. Michaela Coel's dark comedy I May Destroy You, in which the creator explores the traumatic aftermath of rape, uses a tight 30-minute comedy format, yet there are visceral and heart-wrenching episodes that leave viewers shaken. The Apple TV+ hit Bad Sisters, billed as a dark comedy and thriller about five tight-knit Irish sisters trying to murder their contemptible brother-in-law, uses the hour-long drama format across 10 episodes.

American dramedies have upended conventions too. Donald Glover's Atlanta had no issue putting its characters in uncomfortable settings and letting them marinate in other people's cringe, such as the Juneteenth episode where Earn and Van spend the occasion at a white man's house as he lords over them with his collection of Black memorabilia and knowledge. More recently, FX's The Bear, which sees a burned-out Michelin-starred chef take over his late brother's Chicago diner, flits between Safdieesque chaos, emotionally charged arguments, and high financial stakes in a show billed as a comedy.

Then there's everyone's favorite football—sorry, soccer—coach who flips the narrative by turning a very American gaze on a very British world. Ted Lasso's underdogs have been a runaway hit in America, but the comedy hasn't had quite as warm a welcome with UK viewers, who aren't as used to seeing the rain-soaked Richmond high street through the rose-tinted American filters that play up stereotypical British quaintness. Tea! Biscuits! Stuffy no-nonsense English reporter!

It's rare to find a British comedy that becomes the lens for an American family saga, and this is where Succession stands apart. Every episode has delivered laugh-out-loud moments, whether through acerbic one-liners or goofy Greg or even Logan's savage outbursts. They're all effortlessly intertwined with life-or-death moments and emotional reckonings. And then there's Tom's odyssey: an outsider with a soft-spoken upper-class accent who's enjoyed a Dickensian ascension to become a Machiavellian manipulator. He may be the show's funniest character. Throw in Adam McKay (who directed the pilot) and Will Ferrell as executive producers, and it's even clearer that comedy was always the key to this shrewd dissection of the media landscape.

As Armstrong well knows, real life doesn't have a laugh track or a fantastic score. The drama of the Roys can only truly be explored by immersing us in the itchiness and absurdity of their wealth, entitlement, and ambition. Whether we're watching Peep Show's El Dude brothers or Succession's the Disgusting Brothers, in Armstrong's world comedy will always be king.