Better Call Saul Episode One: “Uno” – TV Review
A Heavy Shadow and a Clear Voice
When Better Call Saul premiered in 2015, the expectations weren’t just high — they were towering. Breaking Bad had ended just over a year earlier and left behind a legacy that reshaped how audiences looked at television drama. With its operatic storytelling, shocking turns, and moral decay wrapped in desert heat, Vince Gilligan’s Albuquerque had become the center of prestige TV. So the idea of a spin-off, particularly one centered on comic relief character Saul Goodman, was met with a mix of curiosity, excitement, and skepticism.
Could a series about a fast-talking lawyer who specialized in sleazy tactics and colorful suits carry the emotional weight that Breaking Bad was known for? Would audiences care about Saul without Walter White breathing down his neck? Was this just an attempt to cash in on a beloved universe — or could it really stand on its own?
Episode one, titled “Uno,” answered those questions with patience and confidence. It didn’t try to outdo Breaking Bad. It didn’t rush to connect to the meth empire or build tension through explosive twists. Instead, it took its time, built its world, and reintroduced us to a man we thought we already knew, but clearly didn’t.
Opening in the Quietest Possible Way
The first thing “Uno” does is push the audience into silence. We’re not in Albuquerque right away. We’re in black-and-white. A tired man makes cinnamon rolls, works behind a Cinnabon counter, and lives a life of quiet anonymity. There’s no music, no dialogue, just quiet dread. It’s Saul Goodman, now hiding as “Gene,” living post-Breaking Bad, afraid of being found. It’s a stark, mournful way to begin a spin-off that many expected to be a legal comedy.
This opening sequence signals something bigger: Better Call Saul isn’t just going to be a prequel. It’s going to be a reflection. A character study. A slow dive into identity, regret, and the line between survival and corruption. The show isn’t about catching up with Saul Goodman — it’s about how Jimmy McGill became him.
Back to the Beginning
Once the black-and-white sequence ends, we’re launched back in time. It’s 2002. Cell phones still flip. Jimmy McGill is struggling to scrape together a living as a public defender in Albuquerque. He’s not a flashy operator yet. He’s broke, driving a junky yellow car, and barely holding things together. He’s not even close to becoming the Saul Goodman we met in Breaking Bad.
Bob Odenkirk’s performance is essential here. This could have been a tricky shift — taking a comic side character and giving him dramatic depth — but Odenkirk makes it look effortless. He plays Jimmy as someone who talks a big game but lives a small life. He wants to be respected, to matter, to escape the shadows of people who think he’s a joke. The episode doesn’t give him a triumphant moment. It gives him problems, defeats, and small humiliations. It gives him character.
Rebuilding a World Without Repeating It
Uno is directed by Vince Gilligan himself, and that shows in every frame. The pacing is unhurried. The shots linger. The desert stretches in the background like a constant reminder of isolation. There are nods to Breaking Bad, but not in a self-congratulatory way. Mike Ehrmantraut makes an appearance — not as a fixer, but as a grumpy parking lot attendant. The world is smaller, messier, and still in the process of becoming.
Rather than relying on nostalgia, the show uses familiarity to create unease. We know where Jimmy is going, but we don’t know how or when. That dramatic irony hangs over everything, but it never feels forced. The writing team, led by Gilligan and Peter Gould, isn’t in a rush to connect the dots. They’re more interested in showing how those dots formed in the first place.
There’s also a level of technical finesse that fans of Breaking Bad will recognize. The visuals aren’t just pretty — they’re purposeful. A key early scene shows Jimmy arguing in court while his clients laugh behind him. It’s not just a moment of professional defeat — it’s a metaphor for his place in the system. He’s trying to be taken seriously in a world that sees him as disposable.
Casting Risks That Paid Off
The show’s biggest gamble was trusting that Bob Odenkirk could shoulder the lead role, not just as a comedic presence but as a dramatic one. Before Breaking Bad, Odenkirk was best known for his work in sketch comedy (Mr. Show). While Breaking Bad had already proven he could deliver in a supporting capacity, leading a show — especially one that had to transition from light to heavy — was another level of challenge.
Odenkirk doesn’t just meet that challenge in “Uno” — he redefines what kind of performer he is. His portrayal of Jimmy McGill is layered. There’s still the salesman swagger, but it’s hollow. There’s a sadness in the pauses, in the way he looks at people who don’t believe in him. It’s not just a man trying to get rich. It’s a man trying to matter.
Michael McKean, playing Chuck McGill, Jimmy’s older brother, is another unexpected choice that works perfectly. McKean, long associated with comic roles, plays Chuck as brittle, cerebral, and emotionally wounded. Chuck lives with a debilitating sensitivity to electricity and isolates himself in his home, surrounded by gas lamps and foil-lined walls. Their relationship is complex and tense from the start. It’s not just about family or loyalty. It’s about control, fear, and pride.
Rhea Seehorn, though not a central focus in the first episode, would go on to become one of the show’s most compelling characters. Her introduction as Kim Wexler is understated — a single look through a cigarette shared in silence — but even that early, the chemistry is clear. The writers took their time with her arc, and that patience paid off.
A Premise That Didn’t Rely on Crime
One of the smartest choices Better Call Saul made was refusing to become a crime show immediately. “Uno” is largely about a man failing in the most mundane ways — struggling to get paid, to land a client, to be taken seriously by a brother who doesn’t think he deserves to be a lawyer in the first place. It’s about parking tickets and phone bills. And somehow, it’s still gripping.
The show knows that character work will always outlast plot twists. By anchoring the series in Jimmy’s personal journey, rather than a high-concept hook, it gave itself room to breathe. There are no meth labs here. No kingpins. Just small-time cons, old grudges, and the endless grind of trying to move forward when every door feels closed.
A Slow Build with Long Payoffs
“Uno” ends with a scam gone wrong — a moment that, in any other show, might have been played for laughs. Jimmy tries to manipulate a couple of skateboarders into staging a fake accident for a payout. The plan spirals, leading them into the orbit of Tuco Salamanca — a nod to the more dangerous Breaking Bad connections yet to come.
The appearance of Tuco isn’t just fan service. It’s a reminder that Jimmy’s world will eventually collide with the violent side of Albuquerque. But even then, the show doesn’t rush it. The pacing remains careful. Every decision Jimmy makes feels earned, not dictated by plot mechanics.
That commitment to the long game would become one of the show’s defining strengths. Where Breaking Bad exploded outward, Better Call Saul digs inward. And it starts right here.
Cultural and Creative Impact
When Uno aired, it pulled in 6.9 million viewers — a huge number for cable, especially for a spin-off. But numbers aside, the episode’s real victory was proving that Better Call Saul had its own voice. It wasn’t a shadow of Breaking Bad. It was a character study built on quiet moments, moral uncertainty, and deeply human storytelling.
By taking risks with tone, casting, pacing, and structure, Better Call Saul redefined what a spin-off could be. It showed that prequels don’t have to be rehashes. They can be expansions. Illuminations. Entirely new works of art rooted in familiar soil.
And it all began with “Uno” — an episode that chose to whisper when everyone expected it to shout.
