Skip to main content

Books on Friday

 The insightful writer Alan Sepinwall has a new book out on "Better Call Saul"; to get ready, I have been spending time with Sepinwall's essays on "Breaking Bad." Some fun observations:


*People recall that Emily Nussbaum hated the "Breaking Bad" finale so much, she suggested that it was a daydream. The real ending, for her, was Walt in his car, in "Granite State," slowly dying in a snowstorm. But I didn't know that Joyce Carol Oates also advanced this theory.

*The foreword pays special attention to a broken dinner plate. By the writer's calculations, "Breaking Bad" first achieved greatness when Walter White had to contemplate the possibility of his inaugural killing. White really wanted to avoid the killing. But, as he scraped up the shards of a broken dinner plate, he deduced that his captive had snatched one quarter of the plate; that little piece was waiting to become a weapon. For this reason, Walt then committed his murder. (Walt still gets punctured by the dinner plate. A "mark of Cain.")

*In the standout episode "Ozymandias," Walter waits with his abducted infant at a payphone. The infant was coached to be silent; this was the command in the script. But the infant--being an infant--begins calling for Mama. Bryan Cranston--a gifted tactician--understands, immediately, that he can "use" the baby's improvised line. So the baby's remark becomes a pivotal moment in the plot. Lightning in a bottle.

*A detail I'd always missed. After Walter goes into hiding, he becomes "Mr. Lambert." At the same time, Skyler--trying to distance herself from the memory of Walter--chooses to readopt her maiden name, "Lambert." She has no idea that Walt has already violated her last name. Disentangling oneself from Walter will not be an easy task.

I really enjoy these essays, and I'm looking forward to the "Saul Goodman" volume.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...