By Ethan Ames

Season Six, Episode 12: "Waterworks"

Warning: Contains spoilers for Better Call Saul and Breaking Bad

The title of the season six premiere, "Wine and Roses," is a reference to a 1962 movie with Jack Lemmon. It's about two alcoholics in a downward-spiraling, booze-soaked relationship. One person gets sober and flourishes. The other tries to change but ultimately can’t, and in the end, she shuffles off toward certain death. In looking back at the trajectory of season six and where’s it’s brought us to, we can see why the season premiere went by this name. Jimmy and Kim, addicts in their own right, were in a downward spiral together. But one chose to leave the life, whereas the other didn't (or couldn’t). The connection is now so glaringly obvious: Kim and Jimmy, as a unit, were doomed from the start.

"Waterworks,” the penultimate episode of the series, is an outstanding entry in the Saul canon; one of the best and most devastating to date. Not only do we witness the emotional wreckage left in the wake of their destructive relationship, but we also see, clear as day, the fundamental differences between Kim and Saul. Kim still has a sense of justice and a moral compass. But for most of “Waterworks,” the Jimmy McGill that Kim once knew, the corner-cutting but ultimately good-heartened man, is nowhere to be found.

The episode spends a significant chunk of time taking us through the life that Kim (Rhea Seehorn) leads writing copy for a lawn sprinkler company in Titusville, Florida. She's barely recognizable, for one: she’s abandoned her once iconic blonde ponytail, high heels and stylish business-casual dress in favor of brown bangs, white sneakers and denim skirts. But she also has abandoned most of the fearless and driven Kim Wexler she was in Albuquerque, in favor of a decidedly muted and neutral personality. Not unlike Gus Fring, she’s playing someone else entirely.

Vince Gilligan, who wrote and directed the episode, showcases the mundanity of Kim’s life at work and at home with a verisimilitude that could rival anything depicted on The Office. She’s good at her job (no surprise there), and she’s surrounded herself with a group of milquetoast friends and an unexciting boyfriend (who says “Yep” during sex).

Jimmy’s absence is acutely felt here. Her new boyfriend is the polar opposite of her ex-husband: in addition to lacking much of an intellect, he has none of Jimmy’s magnetism or charm. He’s just…a guy, somebody to pass the time with in as pedestrian and chaos-free a manner as possible. 

Rupert Holmes’ “Escape” (the “piña coladas” song) playing in the background of a backyard barbecue - a song Jimmy once referenced in a con - as the man confuses Switzerland with Sweden is a nice touch. It emphasizes the stark contrast between her high-achieving, albeit dysfunctional, past and her colorless, cookie-cutter present.

This isn't to say that there’s anything wrong with her life in Florida, and she doesn’t appear overtly miserable. But Kim once told Rich Schweikart that she left her hometown in Nebraska because she wanted "more." Now, it’s clear that she has opted for less. Much less. Kim, an extraordinary individual, has settled for the ordinary. Because this is what she feels she deserves.

The phone call we witnessed in last week’s episode, but didn’t hear, is a crystallization of Saul’s mastery of character. Upon asking if the receptionist is prone to listening in, Saul (as I’ll refer to him going forward) is unfathomably breezy, waxing on about how it’s been six years since they last spoke, and that he’s still out in the world, “getting away with it.” It’s a testament to how far gone he is that he thinks this is something to be proud of. In a way, it’s a taunt, given that she left him in the throes of a moral crisis. It’s as if he’s meaning to rub it in her face that, even though he’s a wanted man on the run, his supposed freedom is a triumph of his wits.

Seehorn sells this scene brilliantly. Tears brim in her eyes, and we can see the deep, buried reservoir of pain, anger and loss roiling in her face as she does her best to contain it. This isn’t a man she knows anymore, but a ghost from a past she fled.

While she doesn’t say much, she’s the focal point of this scene. Saul’s words are glib drivel that initially just grope for a reaction from her. He wants her to call him “an asshole, yell at me…just say something. Let me know you’ve still got a pulse.” But Kim’s words drop like a bomb, as she states that he should turn himself in. “I don’t know what kind of life you’ve been living, but it can’t be much.”

Saul is gobsmacked, and he goes on the offensive, in the classic, “I know you are, but what am I?” fashion. Not without a point, though, he insists that she could do the same, given that she’s the one with the “guilty conscience.” She knows he’s right (more on that later). But she has no room in her life for this broken man anymore. She hangs up on him, her last words to him being: “I’m glad you’re alive.”

At multiple points in this episode, Gilligan reinforces what a master of black comedy he is: immediately upon hanging up, Kim is summoned to sing happy birthday to a coworker, to which she acquiesces, practically brushing tears from her eyes. The agony she feels as she sings among her coworkers, for the time being, is hers and hers alone.

Kim’s new life in Florida, as a person she barely recognizes, is a manifestation of her own self-punishment. But her conversation with Saul wakes her up to the reality that it’s ultimately a half measure; she’s still evading duly-owed justice. But the Kim we’ve known, the principled and fearless crusader of justice, rises to the occasion. In spite of the depths of Saul’s own denial, he’s right about her.

The fundamental divide between Kim and Saul emerges: she travels back to Albuquerque to deliver an affidavit to the District Attorney, outlining the full scope of their plot against Howard and the aftermath that led to his murder (and its cover-up). Her moral compass points her back to Albuquerque, whereas Saul’s moral compass continues to spin askew.

Seeing Kim traverse the hallways of the downtown courthouse, now shrouded in black and white, is a tragic testament to a life washed over by the passage of time. For her, it’s a ghost town. The tollbooth where Mike once worked is now fully automated; new public defenders, one of whom looks a lot like her, occupy the courts in her stead. The life she could’ve had now continues on without her, as if she were never there.

She then hand-delivers the affidavit to Howard’s incensed and devastated wife, Cheryl, where we learn that Kim may not be prosecuted, without a body to be found or any other witnesses to verify her claims. It’s also unclear why she doesn’t admit to Cheryl that she spoke with Saul, instead speaking in vague terms as to whether or not he’s still alive. She’s implicating him as much as herself with the confession, but perhaps there’s still a part of her that blanches at getting Saul caught. Or maybe she doesn’t want to take control of Saul’s own destiny. I imagine this lack of total transparency will factor into next week’s series finale somehow. But, in any case, when sitting across from Cheryl as she reads her typed account, the steely and unflinching Kim we’ve come to know is present again once more.

Kim’s breakdown on the airport shuttle - the titular waterworks - is gut-wrenching. It’s an astounding piece of acting by Seehorn. We feel her pain so acutely in this moment. It's a torrent of pent-up agony and grief: for the pain and suffering she caused by getting Howard murdered; for squandering the life she worked so hard to achieve; and for the loss of the man she loved. To see an emotional release like this from such a reserved person speaks volumes to the devastation that Kim Wexler has carried around unspoken for so long. It’s an Emmy-worthy performance and I hope Seehorn gets her due.

“Waterworks” bludgeons us almost nonstop devastation, but the flashback to Saul signing his divorce papers with Kim in his office is particularly brutal. The very same office she helped him to locate has become a grotesque amphitheater, within which Jimmy’s alter ego has completely subsumed the man she once loved. He’s callous and unfeeling to her (at least on the surface), hardly letting her speak and wielding nonchalance as both a shield and a weapon.

His last words to her for six years — “Have a nice life, Kim,” — are a slap in the face for both her and us. It calls to mind Chuck’s last words to Jimmy: that Jimmy "never mattered all that much to [Chuck]." Of course, the indifference of both Chuck and Jimmy were merely fronts to protect their own wounded egos. But the cycle of hurt people hurting people is on full display here, and it’s a haunting spectacle.

Jesse and Kim’s moment together outside of Saul’s office is unexpected and welcome. In a way, it makes sense that they share a scene: they’re spiritual cousins in the Bad/Saul universe, emotional casualties whose respective consciences ultimately bring them to their knees.  Rhea Seehorn is one of those actresses who can convey so much feeling through stillness and the subtlest of responses. She’s sinking deep into herself in the wake of her conversation with Saul, and she clearly isn’t in the mood to make small talk with this affable dope. But she musters up the decency to do so anyway.

On behalf of his friend Emilio inside (who will end up being Walt’s first murder victim), Jesse asks Kim if Saul is “any good” as a lawyer. She takes a long, thoughtful pull off her cigarette, and responds: “When I knew him, he was.”

There’s a double meaning at work here: back when she knew him, he was both a good lawyer and a good person. But she doesn’t know him anymore, and the man who sat before her moments ago isn’t a good person. With that, Kim makes her exit from Saul’s life, running through the rain alone.

It’s worth noting that her words vouching for Saul indirectly point Jesse and Walt toward his services in Breaking Bad, another domino in a chain of causality that ultimately yields devastation for Jesse. For both Kim and Jesse, their lives are worse off for knowing Saul. Chuck’s prophecy for his brother ended up being a self-fulfilling one: Saul ends up hurting everyone around him, in one way or another, directly or indirectly. 

Meanwhile, in Omaha, hubris and pain drive Saul to levels of recklessness that border on insanity. His decision to break into the cancer man’s home in last week’s “Breaking Bad” is as consequential as was intimated. It’s possible that he wants to get caught, on some level. Or maybe these scams are all he has left in his life. But even after Jeff pulls up in the cab as planned, Saul stays in the man’s house - while he’s sleeping on the floor, just feet away - choosing instead to pilfer the man’s watch collection, idly explore his cigars and fix himself a drink. 

A masterstroke in increasing stakes unfolds: the man wakes up, groggily sitting on the stairs and blocking Saul’s only exit. Outside, an anxious Jeff waits in his cab, until a police cruiser pulls up behind him. He has no idea that the cops are unaware of the burglary and are simply eating tacos. Regardless, Jeff, the amateur that he is, panics and peels out, immediately crashing into a parked car just feet away. It’s a much-needed moment of levity, however inexplicable it is that he could so easily botch some very basic driving. The guy only does it for a living, after all…

Saul’s decision to break into the man’s house, and the ensuing series of disasters, creates yet another domino effect that ultimately outs him to Marion. He slips up on the phone with her, displaying a suspiciously in-depth awareness of Albuquerque’s bail-bond system for someone who’s supposedly never been to the city.

This episode’s clever use of color-grading shows when Saul catches Marion watching his old commercials on her laptop (a proverbial Chekhov’s gun). The commercial from his past reflects in color  on his black-and-white glasses, another thoughtful exercise in contrast. 

Marion admits that all it took to discover the truth was an Ask Jeeves search (she’s an old lady, circa 2010, after all) containing the words “con man” and “Albuquerque.” Up he popped, clear as day, she notes with disgust. She’s terrified but is no shrinking violet. 

As he’s wrapping the telephone cord around his hands and advancing on Marion as she fumbles for her LifeAlert, we’re left aghast at the distinct possibility that Saul could resort to the murder of this innocent woman. 

But when Marion tells him that she trusted him, not pleading so much as admitting, he stops and his expression morphs into horrified clarity. Perhaps he’s reminded of his past elderly clients, and his genuine affection for them (even in spite of his manipulation of many of them). Perhaps he sees himself for what he is in that moment: a monster. Whatever he’s feeling, he drops his hands and lets her press her LifeAlert. Gene Takavic’s cover is blown, and Saul Goodman is on the run again.

This moment is telling, and I want to hold out hope that there may be hope for Jimmy McGill’s soul in the series finale. But Saul Goodman must end in order for Jimmy McGill to endure.