I am bereft. Weeks of absorption in Breaking Bad are over: no more filling of an insomniac’s night; no more overstaying the time on the rowing machine to get a few more minutes of the terrible descent into the secular hell of Walter White.
There is not much original in praising Breaking Bad. There are no dissenters in the ranks of those saying that this is drama of the highest order – truly great writing, film work and acting sustained over dozens of episodes. It is the Macbeth of our age – as majestic and as chilling.
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