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Vince Gilligan abides by a code.
For television, the universe of Breaking Bad was an unusually fair one: justice was handed out consistently and emphatically, while drama and tension erupted out of choice and consequence. Without pretension but not without perspective, the series was able to maintain an unprecedented level of control on character, story and pacing throughout its run. Gilligan likes to joke that he and his co-writers increasingly “made it up” on the fly, and yet that’s precisely where Breaking Bad broke out from great TV to, at least, near-masterpiece: the goings-on in this universe could be instantaneously conjured-up because the world was so organically- and fully-realized.
Gilligan didn’t do it alone: the same team of writers, directors and actors returned each season, sketching out plot beats, visual language and character transformation. And this same team has, for the most part, reunited for a spinoff: Better Call Saul. The series sprouted as a weighty joke, evolved as a comedic counterpart to Breaking Bad and finally made it to airwaves as a dramatic companion piece.
What were we to think after Vince Gilligan chose to take on a larger role than he originally envisioned? He came to share executive producer duties with creator Peter Gould, in a decision that could have been reasoned either as course-correcting or jumping on the bandwagon of something that was actually working.
What about when AMC renewed Saul for a second season before it even premiered? Again, you could call it a declaration of faith in a promising prospect for the brand, or a moment of desperation from a network in need of a hit.
And how would Bob Odenkirk, a comedian who merely stole scenes in the background of Breaking Bad as a sleazy attorney, fare as a dramatic leading man?
Breaking Bad was so professional and expertly-made in every area of production that, perhaps, we shouldn’t be surprised that Better Call Saul has turned out as well as it has. This is a team that knows what it’s doing, operating with striking confidence, a desire for risk and a comfort with character. Even though in theme and structure Better Call Saul isn’t quite sure what it wants to be just yet, I can’t put my finger on another show that opened, in its pilot, with such assurance in its pacing and unobtrusive brilliance in its camerawork. The whole thing feels unnervingly polished from moment one. With Dave Porter back on composition duties, the same group of editors returning and Breaking Bad writers such as Thomas Schnauz and Gennifer Hutchinson once again intrinsic to the staff, it’s hard not to get caught up in the jovial reunions happening behind-the-scenes. It feels good to be back in their hands.
Better Call Saul takes place a little over a decade before we meet Saul Goodman; as the series begins, he’s low-rent attorney Jimmy McGill (Odenkirk), working out of a single room in a nail salon and trying to pull off minor scams to get his feet off the ground. He's also sibling to an estranged partner of the prestigious local law firm McGill Hamlin. Our hints of Jimmy's eventual transformation into Saul come via a feud with rival partner Harold (Patrick Fabian) -- who's displeased with Jimmy using the McGill name for his inferior practice -- and his interactions with Breaking Bad's Mike (Jonathan Banks), getting to know Jimmy as the amusingly grumpy attendant of his office parking lot.
Like Breaking Bad, this show has an impeccable sense of tone from the get-go. The show’s winking nods to the ‘90s -- flip phones, VCRs, etc. -- are just infrequent and clever enough, while the show leans on Bad references minimally. In fact, aside from Mike the only major nod to the original show is a superbly-executed surprise appearance from Tuco (Raymond Cruz). As the initial kingpin of Breaking Bad, Tuco lured Walt and Jesse deeply into the meth trade, working as a major catalyst for the series. He plays a similar role in Better Call Saul, as his murderous presence takes our hero out of the petty scam game and into something much more dangerous (and profitable). It’s a clever connection Gilligan, Gould et al. make to Breaking Bad, but it completely works on its own.
For television, the universe of Breaking Bad was an unusually fair one: justice was handed out consistently and emphatically, while drama and tension erupted out of choice and consequence. Without pretension but not without perspective, the series was able to maintain an unprecedented level of control on character, story and pacing throughout its run. Gilligan likes to joke that he and his co-writers increasingly “made it up” on the fly, and yet that’s precisely where Breaking Bad broke out from great TV to, at least, near-masterpiece: the goings-on in this universe could be instantaneously conjured-up because the world was so organically- and fully-realized.
Gilligan didn’t do it alone: the same team of writers, directors and actors returned each season, sketching out plot beats, visual language and character transformation. And this same team has, for the most part, reunited for a spinoff: Better Call Saul. The series sprouted as a weighty joke, evolved as a comedic counterpart to Breaking Bad and finally made it to airwaves as a dramatic companion piece.
What were we to think after Vince Gilligan chose to take on a larger role than he originally envisioned? He came to share executive producer duties with creator Peter Gould, in a decision that could have been reasoned either as course-correcting or jumping on the bandwagon of something that was actually working.
What about when AMC renewed Saul for a second season before it even premiered? Again, you could call it a declaration of faith in a promising prospect for the brand, or a moment of desperation from a network in need of a hit.
And how would Bob Odenkirk, a comedian who merely stole scenes in the background of Breaking Bad as a sleazy attorney, fare as a dramatic leading man?
Breaking Bad was so professional and expertly-made in every area of production that, perhaps, we shouldn’t be surprised that Better Call Saul has turned out as well as it has. This is a team that knows what it’s doing, operating with striking confidence, a desire for risk and a comfort with character. Even though in theme and structure Better Call Saul isn’t quite sure what it wants to be just yet, I can’t put my finger on another show that opened, in its pilot, with such assurance in its pacing and unobtrusive brilliance in its camerawork. The whole thing feels unnervingly polished from moment one. With Dave Porter back on composition duties, the same group of editors returning and Breaking Bad writers such as Thomas Schnauz and Gennifer Hutchinson once again intrinsic to the staff, it’s hard not to get caught up in the jovial reunions happening behind-the-scenes. It feels good to be back in their hands.
Better Call Saul takes place a little over a decade before we meet Saul Goodman; as the series begins, he’s low-rent attorney Jimmy McGill (Odenkirk), working out of a single room in a nail salon and trying to pull off minor scams to get his feet off the ground. He's also sibling to an estranged partner of the prestigious local law firm McGill Hamlin. Our hints of Jimmy's eventual transformation into Saul come via a feud with rival partner Harold (Patrick Fabian) -- who's displeased with Jimmy using the McGill name for his inferior practice -- and his interactions with Breaking Bad's Mike (Jonathan Banks), getting to know Jimmy as the amusingly grumpy attendant of his office parking lot.
Like Breaking Bad, this show has an impeccable sense of tone from the get-go. The show’s winking nods to the ‘90s -- flip phones, VCRs, etc. -- are just infrequent and clever enough, while the show leans on Bad references minimally. In fact, aside from Mike the only major nod to the original show is a superbly-executed surprise appearance from Tuco (Raymond Cruz). As the initial kingpin of Breaking Bad, Tuco lured Walt and Jesse deeply into the meth trade, working as a major catalyst for the series. He plays a similar role in Better Call Saul, as his murderous presence takes our hero out of the petty scam game and into something much more dangerous (and profitable). It’s a clever connection Gilligan, Gould et al. make to Breaking Bad, but it completely works on its own.
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Odenkirk is excellent here. He doesn’t possess the gravitas of an actor like Bryan Cranston, but in the way that the Saul creative team has framed the story and the world, he doesn’t need to. He’s a solid, compelling leading man on his own, offering surprising levels of empathy and truth in his performance. The show is tonally confidant in a way where shifts to comedy feel natural; this flexibility helps Odenkirk, a natural and gifted comedian, profoundly. He fluidly weaves between the heavier and lighter material, and actually locates new avenues to explore in humor. Courtesy of the actor's work, Jimmy's lengthy visit with an old woman trying to settle her estate evolves from innocuously hilarious to quietly revelatory: both the character and actor demonstrate newfound competence, along with surprising emotional investment in the prospective client.
Without mimicking its predecessor, Better Call Saul is also among TV's most aesthetically stimulating series. Its pace is remarkably measured: there’s no rushing here, no paranoia about keeping things rolling. As the show figures itself out, Gilligan and Gould rightly determine that steady character development and intensely beautiful visuals are enough to pass the time. Shots linger, conversations go on and that Steadicam gets plenty of action: the whole viewing experience is casually immersive. Gilligan’s direction of the pilot immediately sways from the Breaking Bad style, with an increased-favoring of the wide, long (long) shot and a more-pronounced dissatisfaction with cutting. As shots stick with the lens so far out, there’s an unsettling establishment of distance between the audience and the action. It’s deliberate. In particular, Michelle MacLaren’s spellbinding work on the second episode, “Mijo,” goes into the desert with Tuco and Jimmy for a scene of extended length; the way a simple tilt communicates Jimmy’s vulnerability, not to mention his complicity, perfectly illustrates how Better Call Saul manages to keep its languid pacing both stimulating and revealing.
Strengths not withstanding, there are pervasive weaknesses here. As of yet, the show has failed to introduce a single compelling outside character. Banks is droll and predictably wonderful as Mike, who’s finally getting integrated into the show’s central action, while Odenkirk holds down the fort well. But Fabian’s nasty rival attorney is distressingly one-dimensional -- the most recent episode finds his partner in the hospital, an opportunity to flesh out Hamlin as a character that goes untapped -- while, as Jimmy’s sort-of love interest Kim, Rhea Seehorn hasn’t left any impression whatsoever. Michael McKean is solid as Jimmy’s electromagnetic-averse brother Chuck, and his scenes with Odenkirk have a stinging resonance to them. But it’s quite unclear what kind of part he’ll play in the series going forward. Like, of all things, House of Cards, everything beyond the central narrative of Jimmy McGill is a little airless and uninvolving at this point.
If Breaking Bad was about one man’s moral transformation, Better Call Saul is identifying another’s moral malleability. Jimmy is a decent guy, comfortable with ripping certain people off but dedicated to helping out his brother. He’s also someone that wants to make money, and if these first five episodes of Better Call Saul have proven anything, it’s that you can’t do it with principles -- even if those principles are less-than-pure. The conceit is relatively similar to Breaking Bad, but the methods and underlying ideas are quite different. The show needs to figure out what it is, exactly -- some episodes have been totally Jimmy-centric, while others have shifted points-of-view, and I’m not sure that the show is sufficiently grounded to warrant these differing approaches just yet -- but the balance of comedy and drama is working, as is so much else. For a show in its beginning stages, Better Call Saul -- cumulatively unfinished as it may be -- is definitively involving and unassumingly refined. You can thank the Breaking Bad team for that.
Without mimicking its predecessor, Better Call Saul is also among TV's most aesthetically stimulating series. Its pace is remarkably measured: there’s no rushing here, no paranoia about keeping things rolling. As the show figures itself out, Gilligan and Gould rightly determine that steady character development and intensely beautiful visuals are enough to pass the time. Shots linger, conversations go on and that Steadicam gets plenty of action: the whole viewing experience is casually immersive. Gilligan’s direction of the pilot immediately sways from the Breaking Bad style, with an increased-favoring of the wide, long (long) shot and a more-pronounced dissatisfaction with cutting. As shots stick with the lens so far out, there’s an unsettling establishment of distance between the audience and the action. It’s deliberate. In particular, Michelle MacLaren’s spellbinding work on the second episode, “Mijo,” goes into the desert with Tuco and Jimmy for a scene of extended length; the way a simple tilt communicates Jimmy’s vulnerability, not to mention his complicity, perfectly illustrates how Better Call Saul manages to keep its languid pacing both stimulating and revealing.
Strengths not withstanding, there are pervasive weaknesses here. As of yet, the show has failed to introduce a single compelling outside character. Banks is droll and predictably wonderful as Mike, who’s finally getting integrated into the show’s central action, while Odenkirk holds down the fort well. But Fabian’s nasty rival attorney is distressingly one-dimensional -- the most recent episode finds his partner in the hospital, an opportunity to flesh out Hamlin as a character that goes untapped -- while, as Jimmy’s sort-of love interest Kim, Rhea Seehorn hasn’t left any impression whatsoever. Michael McKean is solid as Jimmy’s electromagnetic-averse brother Chuck, and his scenes with Odenkirk have a stinging resonance to them. But it’s quite unclear what kind of part he’ll play in the series going forward. Like, of all things, House of Cards, everything beyond the central narrative of Jimmy McGill is a little airless and uninvolving at this point.
If Breaking Bad was about one man’s moral transformation, Better Call Saul is identifying another’s moral malleability. Jimmy is a decent guy, comfortable with ripping certain people off but dedicated to helping out his brother. He’s also someone that wants to make money, and if these first five episodes of Better Call Saul have proven anything, it’s that you can’t do it with principles -- even if those principles are less-than-pure. The conceit is relatively similar to Breaking Bad, but the methods and underlying ideas are quite different. The show needs to figure out what it is, exactly -- some episodes have been totally Jimmy-centric, while others have shifted points-of-view, and I’m not sure that the show is sufficiently grounded to warrant these differing approaches just yet -- but the balance of comedy and drama is working, as is so much else. For a show in its beginning stages, Better Call Saul -- cumulatively unfinished as it may be -- is definitively involving and unassumingly refined. You can thank the Breaking Bad team for that.
Grade: B+