Better Call Saul – Season 1 Episode 2: “Mijo” – TV Review
Following the Meth Dust Trail of Breaking Bad
When Breaking Bad ended in 2013, it left behind more than a crater-sized impression on television. It created a vacuum — a wide, empty space where fans and critics alike started asking the same question: What’s next? There was no appetite for imitation. What Vince Gilligan and his creative team built with Walter White was too singular to clone. But the universe they created — the underbelly of Albuquerque, the moral rot inside the American dream, the slow erosion of identity — had more stories buried inside it. People weren’t just hungry for more meth-fueled plot twists. They were interested in seeing how far the world of Breaking Bad could stretch.
Enter Better Call Saul. A prequel focused on Saul Goodman, the fast-talking, morally ambiguous lawyer played by Bob Odenkirk, felt like a wild proposition at first. While Saul was a fan favorite, he was introduced as comic relief — a necessary but often exaggerated presence in a story that became increasingly dark. Building a series around that kind of character, especially in the wake of such a high-stakes, operatic show, seemed like a risk. But the creative team wasn’t interested in retreading old ground. They didn’t want to chase intensity or manufacture another kingpin arc. They wanted to trace the human fallout of ambition and failure. They wanted to ask who Saul Goodman was before he started printing burner phones and laundering cartel money. And they wanted to take their time doing it.
“Mijo” Steps Into the Fire Early
The first episode of Better Call Saul, titled “Uno,” ended on a quiet cliffhanger that teased something darker lurking under Jimmy McGill’s messy, comical life. By the time the credits rolled, two grifting skateboarders had accidentally landed in the home of none other than Tuco Salamanca — a familiar and dangerous face from Breaking Bad. That ending wasn’t just a wink to longtime fans. It was a signal that this show, while determined to walk its own path, was willing to dip its feet into the bloodier waters of the franchise.
“Mijo,” the second episode, picks up exactly where “Uno” left off. Jimmy is now in a kitchen with Tuco and his abuelita, pretending to be a concerned citizen while trying to de-escalate a situation that could spiral out of control at any second. The tone shifts immediately. This isn’t the courtroom anymore. This isn’t comic awkwardness in a nail salon office. This is cartel territory, and the tension is thick enough to chew.
Vince Gilligan, who directed this episode, uses silence and stillness as weapons. Tuco isn’t shouting yet. He’s polite. He’s controlled. And that’s exactly why the scene works. Anyone who remembers Tuco from his Breaking Bad days knows what’s coming — the explosion is inevitable — and the fact that it takes its time only ramps up the dread.
Jimmy McGill as the Chess Player, Not the Pawn
One of the smartest creative decisions in this episode is allowing Jimmy to survive not with fists or luck, but with words. He talks. He pleads. He negotiates. And he does it with skill that’s been honed not through power, but desperation. The deal he strikes to spare the lives of the two skateboarders — reducing their punishment from death to a pair of broken legs — is brutal, but it’s also practical. He’s learning the rules of the game without fully realizing the stakes yet. It’s not heroism. It’s survival.
Bob Odenkirk’s performance in this episode is crucial. There are no grand monologues. No flashy moral revelations. Just a man using his brain to navigate a world that is far more violent than the one he’s used to. He plays Jimmy not as a con man, but as someone whose empathy hasn’t entirely eroded yet — someone who’s still not sure if he wants to play dirty, even as he’s forced to get his hands messy.
That nuance is what keeps the show grounded. Jimmy isn’t Saul yet. He’s not polished. He’s scared. He’s scrambling. He has lines he still doesn’t want to cross, even when he’s already halfway over them.
Cultural Baggage and a Fresh Direction
The cultural weight of Breaking Bad looms large over “Mijo,” but the episode refuses to get crushed by it. There are familiar faces — Tuco, Nacho Varga (played with calm menace by Michael Mando), even Mike Ehrmantraut grunting through his job at the parking lot booth. But those callbacks don’t feel forced. They feel organic, like pieces of a puzzle still being shaped.
What’s more interesting is how Better Call Saul differentiates itself stylistically. While Breaking Bad often built tension through escalation, Saul is comfortable with quiet. “Mijo” has long pauses, slow pans, and moments where the audience is left to sit with discomfort rather than flee from it. When Jimmy returns from his desert ordeal and collapses on the floor of his office, his whole body shaking from fear and exhaustion, it’s one of the rawest moments in the entire series. There’s no narration. No overt music cue. Just trauma leaking out of a man who can’t quite process what just happened.
It’s in those kinds of scenes where the show truly finds its voice. Not through callbacks or easter eggs, but through humanity.
Risks That Don’t Apologize for Themselves
From a production standpoint, Better Call Saul shouldn’t have worked. You don’t typically build prestige drama around a character whose origin story wasn’t asked for. You don’t cast a comedian in a dramatic lead and expect him to shoulder the emotional core of the story. You don’t slow-burn your second episode in a series that follows a TV cultural juggernaut and expect the audience to stick around.
But the creative team — Gilligan, Peter Gould, and everyone behind the scenes — leaned into those risks. They didn’t try to reheat old leftovers. They built something new from familiar ingredients. They gave characters space to grow. They invested in atmosphere over shock value. And it paid off.
The casting of Michael Mando as Nacho Varga is one of those quieter payoffs that reveals itself over time. He’s introduced here as one of Tuco’s guys, someone who watches more than he speaks. But there’s depth behind his eyes — a kind of intelligence and danger that hints at a much more layered role in Jimmy’s future. That kind of casting doesn’t always land on first watch. But it’s the type of long-term planning that makes the Better Call Saul universe feel rich.
Mijo and the Growing Storm
“Mijo” doesn’t just expand Jimmy’s world. It makes it more dangerous. It signals that the legal shenanigans and grifts aren’t just cute tricks anymore. There’s a cost now. When Nacho gives Jimmy his number — the kind of casual, ominous act that opens doors to more serious business — we know Jimmy is being pulled into something larger than himself.
There’s also the duality of the episode’s title. “Mijo” — a term of endearment in Spanish meaning “my son” — appears almost ironic. Jimmy is nobody’s son here. He has no protector, no mentor, no guardian watching his back. He’s alone, improvising his way through a world that doesn’t care whether he wins or loses. The title feels like a cruel joke or a distant hope — either way, it lingers.
Character Beats That Stay With You
Among the episode’s standout moments is a scene between Jimmy and Chuck, his older brother, who’s still living without electricity due to what he describes as electromagnetic hypersensitivity. Jimmy wants Chuck to cash out from his law firm, believing the payout could change their lives. Chuck refuses, insisting that Jimmy needs to earn his place, not buy his way out of trouble.
This isn’t just a sibling disagreement. It’s a thesis statement. Chuck sees Jimmy as a cheat. Someone who doesn’t respect the law but wants to profit from it. That tension — between legitimacy and hustling — will define the rest of the series. And in “Mijo,” we already feel the weight of it.
A World That Doesn’t Need to Be Loud to Be Dangerous
There’s something masterful about how Better Call Saul builds stakes without raising its voice. “Mijo” isn’t flashy. It doesn’t end with gunfire or betrayals. But it deepens the world. It complicates the characters. And it proves that the show doesn’t need to ride the coattails of Breaking Bad to be compelling.
By the time the episode ends, Jimmy hasn’t changed overnight. But something inside him has started to shift. He’s seen how close danger is. He’s seen how fast things can fall apart. And while he hasn’t embraced the Saul Goodman identity yet, he’s taken a step toward understanding why he might need to.
That slow movement — that deliberate, human pacing — is what sets Better Call Saul apart. And in “Mijo,” it’s already clear that this isn’t just a show trying to explain a side character’s origin. It’s a story about choice, compromise, and how far a man will bend before he breaks.
