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As cable began to be the go-to source for quality programming over the last decade or so, each network emerged with a flagship hit. HBO kicked it all off with The Sopranos. FX came next with The Shield. Sci-Fi (or whatever folks are calling it these days) brought us Battlestar Galactica. After the one show takes the world by critical storm, these networks will often debut another show, or shows, which lead a solid and respected life, never quite stepping out of the landmark show's shadow - Six Feet Under on HBO, or Nip/Tuck on FX, to give two examples. These programs have their followings and often enjoy positive notices, but everyone knows what the main course really is.

Of course, AMC has burst out on the better-than-network programming scene in recent years with their Emmy darling Mad Men. As with its predecessors in the prestige television landscape, they have also given us a second show, which has never quite managed to garner as much ink as those smoking, sexists at Sterling Cooper. Breaking Bad lives in the wake of the Mad Men tsunami, yet, in many ways, I enjoy it quite a bit more.
Breaking Bad is certainly more uneven than Mad Men. Each episode of Mad Men is constructed like a fine-tuned Stradivarius, no piece out of place, every nuance contributing to the whole. Breaking Bad, on the other hand, has a more sprawling and epic scope, greater in ambition, though allowing for more cracks to slip through.

The show's mythology, if you can call it that, is about the culture clash between suburbia and the drug trade, methamphetamines, to be precise. It's different than Showtime's Weeds, though similar enough that this isn't what fascinates me about the show. I love a good show mythology, but what makes Breaking Bad special is its style.

If Mad Men purports to have a realistic style (I would argue against that, but we'll save that for another column), Breaking Bad's is hyper-realistic. One could draw comparison to the work of the Coens, Paul Thomas Anderson or Stanley Kubrick, and those comparisons would be valid. Perhaps the most accurate comparison, however, would be to that of the Sergio Leone spaghetti westerns.

Of course, the New Mexico landscape of the show plays greatly into this. Showrunner Vince Gilligan and his cinematographers present the sweeping western vistas as an almost oppressive prison, perhaps paralleling lead character Walt's sense of being trapped. Trapped in his career, his regular joe lifestyle, his cancer diagnosis. He turns to the world of meth manufacturing, purportedly to earn money for his family before the big C frees him from his sentence, but what really happens is a sense of liberation, of discovering his calling. Of course, his naiveté and conscience cause him all sorts of escalating problems. He is both free and trapped all at the same time.

The visuals are masterful in how they reflect this dichotomy within Walt. Much like Leone's work, the scenes and the individual shots often last far longer than we are used to in standard television. The color is saturated, making the reds deeper, the greens greener. There's a filth, a dirtiness to the beautiful desert scenery. A viewer can almost feel the heat and taste the death.

This languid pacing, coupled with an almost methodical presentation of events, adds to the sense of unease. Television writing is often about being just one step ahead of the viewer. Too many steps and viewers might get confused, too many steps behind and they might get bored. Breaking Bad is brilliant at taking its time and keeping viewers riveted. Events flow slowly, logically, even inevitably, but never fail to compel the viewer.

Of course, great character work and acting is key, but there's also a very precise methodology to the presentation. Similar to the Coens or Leone, we often watch events unfold step-by-step, in a very dreamlike rhythm. Unlike the Coens or Leone, the dialogue and character interactions is very naturalistic, undercutting the rigorous presentation. The Coens especially use dialogue more for rhythm and meter, and Leone's characters are often men of few words. Breaking Bad, perhaps to bridge the gap between its sprawling ambitions and television expectations, cuts the edge of the precision with clever, yet natural and efficient dialogue.
Perhaps owing more to the Coens than Leone or Anderson, the side characters provide some killer-entertaining quirk to compliment the darker desperation Walt embodies. Raymond Cruz's Tuco is an exaggerated wild card, Bob Odenkirk's Saul Goodman walks the fine line between sleazy lawyer spoof and hilarious caricature to brilliant effect. Dean Norris invests Hank with layers of insecurity, giving the character far more dimension than the small-time Vic Mackie he first seems to be. It's these oddball supporting players, much like in a Coen flick, who provide entertaining relief to the oppressiveness of the landscape, the pacing, the themes.

Mad Men gets the awards and the headlines. It deserves them - the show's brilliant. Nevertheless, Breaking Bad is unlike any other show on television today. It's a contemporary spaghetti western. The style is cinematic, the themes are complex, the acting is extraordinary. Most importantly, the storytelling is just brilliant. It may not be fair that Mad Men enjoys the bulk of the attention, but Breaking Bad is still there, doing its thing and doing it well, just waiting for viewers to watch it.