Good little read on The New Yorker:
In his extraordinary eulogy for Logan, Kendall says, “There wasn’t a room, from the grandest state room where his advice was sought to the lowest house where his news played, where he couldn’t walk and wasn’t comfortable.” Kendall was never comfortable in any room he walked into, most of all the room of his own skin. Placed against more confident adversaries (Logan, Lukas Matsson), he could merely puff himself up with hot air, but he could never be at peace. The question hovering over the finale is who will, at long last, get control of Waystar Royco. Kendall seems bent on becoming the “killer” his father told him he was not. But Logan, having fucked off on his own time, isn’t around to dethrone. It’s clear that Kendall would be better suited living out his years in a nice villa in Tuscany than running a media empire, but he has the same misguided hunger that he did at the start, the same need to kill or impress or become his father, in lieu of winning his love. With or without Logan’s crown, he’ll never have his father’s spine. He’s a gloriously flawed, tragically ridiculous, comically inept Prince Hamlet for our pathetic times. Farewell, Kendall Roy. We loved you, but you are not a serious person.