Going into its series finale on Sunday, Breaking Bad exemplifies a new sort of television series, one conceived with its ending in sight.
Wonderfully written, powerfully acted, gorgeously shot, its seasons serve as chapters that take on the Big Four of literary conflict: man versus man, man versus nature, man versus society, man versus himself. The ending after its fifth season comes not in reaction to dwindling ratings or actor fatigue but because, as with any great work of fiction, it suits the story.
Television isn't just the new film, it's the new novel.
Following in the footsteps of The Sopranos, The Wire and then Mad Men, Breaking Bad is one of Those Shows, prestige dramas, mostly from basic and premium cable, that now drive cocktail party conversations and demand grad-school-level dissection. Recapping is eclipsing the book club as our primary form of communal literary analysis.
Liberated from the censors, ratings pressure and lengthy broadcast TV seasons, these are also the shows that ate the Emmys, filling nearly every drama category in this year's nominations. Breaking Bad came away from Sunday's ceremony with two wins, its first for best drama and for Anna Gunn, who plays wife Skyler White, for best supporting actress.
Even culture snobs admit to liking Breaking Bad, Game of Thrones, Homeland or at least one member of TV's ever-growing Literary Salon (some of which, like Justified, are actually drawn from literature).
DVR queues have become the new nightstands, with episodes stacking up like back issues of The New Yorker until, stricken with some minor ailment or surgery, we can binge-view and catch up. Which one really needs to do because, increasingly, admitting that you have never seen Mad Men, The Wire or Damages is like saying you never quite got around to reading Catcher in the Rye or Pride and Prejudice. Just not done, darling.
Indeed, the new Netflix full-season dump is a complete capitulation to the watching-is-the-new-reading model. Here ... here it is, Netflix says, the whole darn thing. Take it to the beach/bedroom/backyard and hunker down.
While actual novelists are forced to think in terms of sequels and franchise, American television writers are experimenting with the finite.
Breaking Bad, the tale of Walter White's descent into power, is a near perfect example of this new form. We met the mild-mannered high school chemistry teacher (Bryan Cranston) as he was receiving a death sentence. His cancer went into remission as another sort of corruption set in, but still the clock was ticking, and creator Vince Gilligan was very clear about his intentions. While the many other members of TV's "antihero society" struggled toward illumination, Walter breathed in the dark. Gilligan repeatedly said he wanted to turn Mr. Chips into Scarface, and, more important, it was the journey not the result that interested him.
It was not an immediate hit, even by cable standards. For years the show seemed to have more essays written about it than actual viewers.
Which will make the finale of a series in the midst of a ratings explosion nothing short of revolutionary. Breaking Bad is ending because Gilligan's story is ending. (A prequel spinoff, Better Call Saul, is in the works because, well, AMC is not a philanthropic institution.)
The Sopranos might have begun the literary trend, tonally and thematically, but it followed a structure made famous, and then ubiquitous, by Hill Street Blues. Although it clearly focused on Tony (James Gandolfini), The Sopranos had the huge cast and smorgasbord of B and C plots that traditionally ensure a show's longevity. It was so open-ended that virtually every season saw creator David Chase debating whether this would be the last, before finally delivering a finale that ranks among TV's most ambiguous conclusions.
Finales always fascinate, but usually because of the acrobatics required in bringing a show to some sort of cogent close; audiences flock to see how the writers are going to tie up the zillion loose ends that result from years of seasonal reinvention. Lost might have been conceived as a four- or five-season series, but emotional satisfaction was the most viewers could hope for at the end of its sixth and final season; certainly none of the show's "mysteries" was explained. Many finales are so bad (Seinfeld) or divorced from the shows they close, they become separate entities, codas judged by their own set of rules.
The finale of Breaking Bad, on the other hand, will, or should, make some sort of statement about modern morality. The series pushed boundaries for graphic violence and moral depravity with an utter lack of censure. No other show has both catalyzed and benefited from the recently universal conclusion that television is this century's ascendant art form.
Unless Gilligan conjures a trick similar to Chase's black screen, the fate of Walter White inevitably will send a message not just about the moral imperative of all these antiheroes, but the courage of this new narrative form.
Will justice, cynicism or brand survival prevail?
'Breaking Bad' series finale
9 p.m. Sept. 29 on AMC. It will run 75 minutes.