“Oh, to be 19 again! Ladies and gentlemen, do you remember 19?” James M McGill asks the question of an indifferent courtroom jury. “The juices are flowing, the grass is green and it’s soft and summer’s going to last for ever,” he gushes on, bolstered by considerable rehearsal in the court bathroom.  “You work for people who had sex with a chopped-off head?” asks his horrified landlady when he returns to the cleaning cupboard he calls an office, his slick ad-man half-belief deactivated. Sometimes in life, as no doubt Jimmy would advise, the show must go on.  The Breaking Bad spinquel Better Call Saul stars Bob Odenkirk and follows the transformation of James M McGill into his flash alias, antihero Saul Goodman (“When legal forces have you cornered, better call Saul”). It has big shoes to fill, and hardcore devotees of popular TV series are a scary bunch of people. The kind of loyalty fans expect in return for whipping up the hype cloud on internet forums and shooting off red-hot opinions into the Twittosphere makes some forms of religious fundamentalism look noncommittal by comparison. But here’s a message to the fans: everything passes. Buds swell, flowers wither, leaves fall. Sun rise, sun set. Remember Mr Kippers and how he couldn’t go on lying in the patch of sun by the back door for ever; how he shuffled off to happily slaughter finches in kitty heaven? Well, TV drama is the same, and all that any of us can do is shut up our whinging and get a new pet.  So it’s best to judge Better Call Saul on its own merits, neatly ushered away from the imposing glory of what came before it. That said, I’m sure it’s the success of Breaking Bad that allows the writers to take artistic liberties, such as dedicating the entire opening episode to slowly, tortuously building Saul’s character in minutely flipping dismal detail. Like all the best comedies, it doesn’t actually make you laugh. Jokes are basically just tricks, though, and in these post-cynical times, who wants to be tricked into laughing? Much better to quietly smirk at how cleverly the episode’s sluggish pacing precisely reflects the itchiness of living a monotonous existence in which life passes by in a conveyor belt of final demands, run-ins with parking attendants, decidedly unflash Public Defense work and empty voicemail boxes. McGill is going through a difficult period right now, caught in the stagnant years between the high drama and criminality that waits for him and the rewarding slip’n’sue career that is more or less behind him. He dazzles a pair of skateboarding mercenaries with tales of this life, salesmanship then bettered in the second episode, when he offers a plea bargain to a gang of violent criminals in scenes that may make you forget to breathe for several minutes.  It’s hard to put a finger on the precise reasons that such sleazy, down-on-their-luck patter merchants appeal. Do we all yearn to sleep on a fold-out bed in our office wearing last Tuesday’s crumpled clothes? Do we identify, deep down, with freshening up with a drop of filing-cabinet whiskey? Probably not, but then I don’t see why good characters need to be relatable.  True art, I’m told, humbles you. And Breaking Bad writers Vince Gilligan and Peter Gould are obviously adept at creating rich, three-dimensional TV. I already like the contrast between the mundanity of suburban Albuquerque and the dark, dank scenes that creep in from the borders. Or McGill’s transmogrification from a greasy comedy figure into something much more complex and thoughtful. It only seems fair to trust them to explore around their original story, to the outer characters and all their frayed peripheries. After all – as the phrase that I’ve heard knocking about, and assume refers to televisual matters, suggests – it’s not length that matters but girth.  Sunday, 10pm, AMC in the US, and Monday, from 7am, Netflix
If ever a spin-off show had big shoes to fill, it’s Better Call Saul. But the makers of Breaking Bad have earned the right to go their own way