Around this time of year, the Breaking Bad episode “Ozymandias” aired, considered one of the best—not only of the series but in the history of television in general. The title comes from the poem of the same name by Percy Shelley (husband of Mary Shelley, the author of Frankenstein), published in 1818. The poem uses the image of a statue of Ozymandias to describe the inevitable decline of all rulers and empires, no matter how powerful they once were. In the series, we see Walter White collapsing in the sand, just as the famous statue is said to have collapsed.
Breaking Bad became a milestone in television, something I personally believe was due not only to its exemplary storytelling but also to the gradual transformation/reversal of its characters’ psychology. From the “Yo Mister White” freestyle dealer Jesse, who slowly develops a wet, melancholic, guilt-ridden gaze, to the reserved, moderate family man Walter who (willingly) gets entangled in the arrogant nets of a drug lord’s power—so much so that he ends up telling his astonished wife: “I am the Danger” (despite his initially pure motives).
Of course, this slow-burning transformation across five seasons was aided by the television format itself, being closer to a literary structure, with episodes functioning like the chapters of a book. At that point, we believed that television could become the new cinema. But greed-driven profiteering began to “stretch” series with unnecessary seasons whenever success was in sight, with the result that today we give priority (at least when we activate our quality instincts) to mini-series, which remain the closest thing to the literary structure of chapters mentioned above.
For those (probably very few) who don’t know the plot: it all started when a mild-mannered chemistry teacher discovered he had cancer. Since his meager salary didn’t allow him to cover the expenses, he turned to a former student of his who was dealing crystal meth. He suggested upgrading the “product” using his scientific knowledge, “cooking” in a camper in the middle of the New Mexico desert.
What could one recall first? Hank, heading the case as a DEA agent, without even knowing himself that his brother-in-law was involved? Tuco’s uncle, Hector Salamanca, confined to a wheelchair in a nursing home, paying back an old vendetta against Gus Fring, the owner of a fried-chicken chain “front”? The attic cliffhanger with Skyler? The execution scene with the silent twin sicarios? Anthology moments, back in the days when you had to wait several months for the next season to begin—something that skyrocketed anticipation.
Oh, and one more thing: if it ever crosses your mind to quit the series somewhere early in Season 2 (affected by the writers’ strike in Hollywood at the time), I advise you not to do it. You would be making a huge mistake, because afterward you will be more than rewarded.
P.S. One of the supporting characters in the series was the lawyer who laundered the dirty money of the two uneasy partners. His name was Saul Goodman, and he had his own personal story before reaching that point. But that’s a story for another time.
