Why 'Better Call Saul' Might End Up Being Better Than 'Breaking Bad'
If "Breaking Bad" was about Mr. Chips transforming into Scarface, as creator Vince Gilligan famously pitched it, then to capture "Better Call Saul" in similar terms, I'd say it's like watching Atticus Finch transform into Lionel Hutz.
That's not to say Jimmy McGill, a.k.a Saul Goodman (Bob Odenkirk), has ever been quite so principled as Finch or as inept as Springfield's wily lawyer, but so far the Jimmy-to-Saul journey has played out in a more measured, nuanced manner than Walter White's rebranding as Heisenberg ever did. You could chalk that up to the distance the two arcs cover; on the surface, there's more to ground to cover on the path from chemistry teacher to meth kingpin than there is from public defender to crooked lawyer. The difference is, Walter White takes to the perspective that helps him worm his way up to the top of New Mexico's meth underworld almost instantaneously, while Jimmy McGill, three seasons in, is still on a slow slide to Saul-dom.
"Better Call Saul" is showing us, in tragic detail, each small decision Saul makes to suppress his Finch-ian moral ideals for Hutz-like hucksterism. If the show continues to take its time with this journey, it'll be hard to deny the strengths its execution has over "Breaking Bad."
Let's back up for a second and try to figure out when a discerning "Breaking Bad" viewer (i.e. one who doesn't idolize plainly monstrous behavior) should think "oh, Walter White is plainly irredeemable now." I'd wager it comes pretty early: by season 3, Walt's so numb to the act of killing that he pushes Jesse into taking a life. A season earlier, he chooses to let Jesse's girlfriend Jane die in her sleep. Hell, within the first three episodes, Walt kills two people — even if you rationalize all Walt's early murders as self-defense, he makes an incredibly short hop from needing the money because he's diagnosed with cancer to killing people as a means to an end. Why anyone's sympathy for Walt would hold past the third season, I really don't know.
By contrast, "Better Call Saul" has largely kept its life or death stakes at a background hum, instead landing its heaviest dramatic punches with each decision Jimmy makes in the slow-motion car wreck that is his life. We've seen people die — notably, Jimmy's scamming buddy Marco and his mother Ruth, in flashback — but not until the final moment of season 3's finale has a death in "Better Call Saul" felt remotely like it has come as a result of Jimmy's actions. We see Jimmy struggle with his personal ethics and feelings of remorse in a timescale that the writers of "Breaking Bad" never afforded to Walter White before the next problem necessitated solving by way of cold manipulation or brutal violence.
Of course, Walt and Jimmy aren't the only characters of substance in their own shows, and the dramatic high- and low-points aren't solely reserved for them. The early seasons of "Breaking Bad" dole out harrowing, memorable moments to other characters, as when Hank witnesses the cartel's grisly message-by-tortoise and Jesse's gruesome evening spent with a pair of addicts who stole an ATM. These side-plots worked in "Breaking Bad" because they weren't just used as opportunities to show the brutality and depravity spurred by the meth trade — at their best, they were opportunities to develop character through tangential scenarios.
"Better Call Saul" boasts character development on-par with "Breaking Bad" without often dropping its characters into one-off scenarios or tying their arcs to big "what the fuck" moments. Kim Wexler's (Rhea Seehorn) car crash last season was nearly as shocking as a severed head on a turtle, not because it was as outlandish or violent (Kim only broke her arm) but because the audience has watched as Kim's obligations and stressors have accumulated, at some level hoping against hope that she'd be spared the inevitable consequences. Watching Nacho Varga (Michael Mando) attempt a sleight of hand is just as tense as watching the famous twin assassination attempt on Hank in "Breaking Bad" thanks not only to brilliant editing, but to the well-established familial stakes at play for Nacho. Even characters like Mike Ehrmantraut (Jonathan Banks) and Gus Fring (Giancarlo Esposito), whose fates are sealed by "Breaking Bad," are given new depths without resorting to reveals that stretch the limits of believability and continuity.
On the note of Gus in particular: I was nervous about his introduction to "Better Call Saul" last season. Eager as I was to see more of Gus, I also worried that his introduction alone would tilt "Better Call Saul" towards the excesses of "Breaking Bad" that the spin-off has so far done fine without indulging. What we got of Gus' backstory in "Breaking Bad" was fascinating, and it was evident that we could have learned so much more about him before his time was up, an arc cut short in service of Walter White's unstoppable march to the peak from which he'd later fall. Gus' death, at the time a jaw-dropping climax moment, in hindsight feels like a narrative and stylistic misstep. Not only could it have been interesting to see Gus' status changed without his departure from the show, but his death scene itself now seems too fantastical to square with the rest of "Breaking Bad's" more fantastic turns (in other words, I hope "Better Call Saul" never proudly invents a reason to call in the make-up and SFX team from "The Walking Dead" for a season finale).
If it sounds like I'm being too hard on "Breaking Bad" for its big, brash moments, know that I'm still impressed to this day how well most of them were set up and written-through without ever going completely off the rails. With, perhaps, the exception of season 2's plane collision, every totally bizarre, unbelievable step "Breaking Bad" took was handled uncannily well. Vince Gilligan may have banged his head against the table for introducing Chekov's machine gun — a gambit that eventually necessitated introducing literal Nazis as the solution — but even that had a worthwhile payoff that kicked off with the utterly brilliant "Ozymandias." I expect, before "Better Call Saul" is done, that it too will bite off more than it seems capable of chewing, but there's no denying that the show, at least thanks to its prequel status, has a better sense on how to portion its morsels.
No episode better demonstrates "Saul's" perfectly-pitched storytelling than season 3's mid-season stand-out "Chicanery," which ends with Michael McKean's unforgettable performance as Chuck in full meltdown mode, obliterating his own credibility while savagely raking Jimmy over the coals to a stunned courtroom. That the scene is the climax of the struggle over Chuck's electromagnetic hypersensitivity — the most out-there and potentially problematic thread established early in the show — while also serving as a major turning point for so many of the show's other characters, is a marvel. Somehow, a monologue and a slow zoom became just as (if not more) riveting as anything "Breaking Bad" could concoct with sudden, gut-wrenching violence in its back pocket. The moments in "Breaking Bad" that come closest are when Skylar White, the character who far too many viewers displaced their hate and disgust on, would take a stand against Walt.1 In "Chicanery," though, Chuck practically has Jimmy dead to rights, and Jimmy just has to stand there and take the accounting of his wrongdoing laced with the abuse from a brother he cared for and tried so hard to impress.
The hurt Jimmy feels from this brother-to-brother confrontation is devastating, and still relatable since we see there's still a part of him that tries, that wants to do good. Walter White is so far gone before he's even halfway through his journey to meth kingpin that it's hard to feel anything for him when someone tells him just how thoroughly awful he is (as just about every main character does, at some point or another). "Better Call Saul's" greatest strength is what's left of Jimmy's; it's the gradually eroding part of Jimmy's core being, straining to balance the scale against every misguided and thoughtless act he's committed. The audience knows that one day, the scales will tip, and the later it comes the better.
I'm not quite ready to say "Better Call Saul" is wholly better than "Breaking Bad" — let's see how this thing comes to a close, either in or after its next season — but it doesn't surprise me at all to hear that Vince Gilligan regularly hears from fans who prefer the spin-off over its forebearer now. On top of the wildly-high expectations set by "Breaking Bad," "Saul" has had to fight for recognition in a TV space more crowded with quality contenders than Walter White's crimes had to compete against. Let other dramas loudly try to one-up themselves the way "Breaking Bad" did, by way of puzzle box narratives, topical valence, or grander spectacle. "Better Call Saul" should keep on its course until the day viewers realize that, quietly and inevitably, the show's most heartbreaking death is exploding on our screens: the moment when Saul Goodman kills the Jimmy McGill we've come to know.
