Emblematic of the storytelling that is unmistakably cut from the same cloth as “Breaking Bad” is Mike Ermentraut’s (Jonathan Banks) arc in the “Better Call Saul” episode “Gloves Off,” written by Gordon Smith and directed by Adam Bernstein, a veteran director of “Breaking Bad” and “Saul,” as well as various other outstanding television shows such as “Fargo.” Smith, who was a writing assistant on “Breaking Bad,” is quickly making a name for himself, particularly with Mike-centric episodes on “Saul” — his first television script — for season one’s “Five-0,” garnered him an Emmy nomination. It would not be surprising to see the same happen for his third effort, “Gloves Off.”

When praising the writing of an episode of television (especially on a show like “Saul” where the titular character is known for his verbosity) the moments of silence, or at least diegetic sounds sans dialogue, aren’t always given their due. “Breaking Bad” had this in spades, with many scenes not requiring dialogue, and many lines of dialogue being cut in the course of filming once the crew realized the actors could sufficiently communicate the scene with a look or with a properly timed edit, camera move or angle, music cue, etc. Michael McKean, who plays Chuck, was quoted as saying "You're never not talking, you're deciding why not to speak."

This is not to say cut all the dialogue — that would be a crime given the quality of these shows’ writing —but it is to say know where the dialogue is and isn’t necessary. Trust the ability of your actors and your crew, and respect the intelligence of your audience. The audience will make the connections if you have laid out the information in a precise manner, and the long form of the medium allows writers to do this at a novel’s pace, with enough nuance that the viewer isn’t hassled with constant exposition dumps.

Mike has always been a character for whom silent storytelling was required, due to his quiet, stoic manner. He is more likely to grunt at and give a look to Walter White’s or Jimmy McGill’s or Pryce’s folly than he is to explain it to them. On occasion, he’ll say something that succinctly cuts to the heart of the matter. On a rarer occasion, he will deliver a monstrous monologue that hits the major themes of “Bad” or “Saul,” and is all the more impactful due to its rarity. For example, the Half Measures speech from the “Bad” episode of the same name.

This is likely the longest the viewer or Walt has ever heard him speak, and it is because Mike is making a point to Walt that has resounding implications for the entire Pollos meth operation. Mike will only bother himself to speak at length when absolutely necessary. The same is true of his monologue in “Saul’s” season one episode “Five-0,” when Mike comes cleans to his daughter-in-law about the murder of his son.

Silence is also key to Mike’s line of work. More often than not, his jobs require that he is invisible; planting a bug in Walter’s house, ambushing the cartel, or being general enforcement for a drug deal necessitate silent communication with other characters, and subsequently that his actions and acting silently communicate with the audience as well.

“Gloves Off” sees Mike at his most well-rounded since “Five-0.” Half of the episode is dedicated to an arc in which Mike is asked by Nacho (Michael Mando) to kill Tuco, Nacho’s business partner. The arc indulges in the decadent stoicism of Mike as he debates the practicality of the hit, explores a tried and true technique from his past, proposes a more practical avenue of dispatching Tuco, and implements it. In typical Gilligan and co. fashion, the episode’s cold open starts somewhere near the end, with a beaten to a pulp Mike taking a well-earned swig of a beer and setting an even better-earned envelope of cash on his daughter-in-law’s kitchen table.

The tempo of the episode largely mirrors the way Mike has been characterized over the course of both shows: a scene with no dialogue at all, followed by scenes of pragmatic and succinct reasoning with other characters, moments of unspoken grief and history, culminating in a scene in which a new side of Mike is shown. I’m going to start at the beginning (or end) and look at how two scene utilizes the silent storytelling that is so common to Mike.

The cold open of “Gloves Off” has Mike walking into his daughter-and-law’s kitchen. It’s clearly late and his steps are wobbly and labored. Due to his history of drinking, as revealed in “Five-0,” and the fact that he opens the fridge and takes a sip from a beer, the implication is that he is off the wagon. But he just dropped a large envelope of cash on the table, so it is clear something other than a wild night out is afoot. It is not until Mike sits on a couch and puts the cold beer to the side of his face that has hitherto been obscured by shadow or by him being shot from the other angle, that the right side of his face is shown gruesomely swollen and bruised, reminiscent of Jesse’s beating from Hank on “Breaking Bad.”

Without a word, this scene tells a story. All in a few minutes, the viewer is concerned that Mike has backslid, realizes that he was actually working a job to provide for his family, and finally sees the physical toll of that job. And, from the celebratory swing that he takes in the air, his pride is shown. Viewers with an attention for obscure details will note that the chain he pulls out of his shirt belongs to Tuco, and the reveal is foretelling.

A scene halfway through “Gloves Off” where Mike is shopping for the weapon best suited to take out Tuco is a quintessential Mike scene, with an ample dose of characterization. The pairing of Mike with a talkative, albeit to the point, arms dealer Lawson (Jim Beaver, another character reprised from “Bad”) is perfect—Lawson will talk and talk and Mike will only interject when he has reached a decision, such as that the first option looks like “a hernia with a scope.” Their respective demeanors are not the only things that make this scene so poignant, but also the ways in which they relate as professionals, and how this is illuminated in the sparsity of dialogue. It’s about when Mike speaks, what he says, and more importantly, what he omits.

As the two go over the rifle options, there is an unspoken respect that bespeaks mutual military service. For every precise sales pitch that Lawson offers, Mike has a brief counter that isolates a jamming problem or what have you with the rifle. Lawson concedes, having made his pitch, and moves onto the next one. When by the end of the scene Mike has decided he does not want a rifle after all, Lawson refuses payment for his time. He believes in his salesmanship and knows that if Mike isn’t a customer today, he likely will be later.

It is the last rifle that Lawson shows Mike, the bolt action M40 rifle, that makes room for the silent storytelling. As the gun case flap flips open, there is an instant look of recognition on Mike’s face. As Lawson starts selling it, “tried and true, battle tested, essentially the same rifle used by Marine snipers since 1966,” the camera stays on Mike, who clearly knows this gun, and its history, well. As Mike handles the M40, testing its familiar weight, pulling its bolt, and staring down its sights, Lawson comments “you seem to know this one.” Mike replies with a tired, “Oh yeah. You could say that.”

You could say that, and so could Mike. Instead, he has a silent reunion with the rifle, only speaking when Lawson tells him that the stock has been changed from wood to fiber glass, which Mike appreciates. “Good. Wood, warped like hell. You get it wet, put it in the sun — gone. Somebody should have probably figured that out before they sent it into a damned jungle.”

This is a great moment of characterization for Mike, and is done with very little blunt exposition. It’s about what the viewer can pick up in the scene, that is that Mike, who is known to have been a policeman and is shown to have expertise with most weapons, was a sniper in Vietnam, possibly as a Marine. This newfound information is utilized for the plot instantly, as Mike immediately decides that he doesn’t need a rifle after all. His reunion with the M40, and the memories it brought about, reminded him that even scum of the earth Tuco Salamanca wasn’t worth killing. At the episode’s end, Nacho is baffled as to why Mike chose to send Tuco to jail instead of simply offing him. And he makes a good point—the world would certainly be better off with Tuco gone, the pay would have been better for Mike, and he would not have had to take that horrendous beating. However, Nacho does not know what the viewer does about Mike.

The final confrontation between Mike and Tuco is the kind of scene that “Saul” is becoming known for—a new side of Mike. Even though, and perhaps because, the viewer relishes in how well the writers and Jonathan Banks can communicate Mike’s character with so little dialogue, they relish just as much in scenes where Mike will put on his own show. The scene speaks for itself, and can be viewed here.

Mike is far from the only character on “Bad” or “Saul” who excels with very little dialogue. Classic characters like the bell ringing Tio (Mark Margolis), the Cousins, and now Kim Wexler (Rhea Seehorn) on “Saul” have done the same. Seehorn has had a particularly good season this year, especially in last week’s episode “Rebecca.” While most of her arc was spent on the phone trying to bring in new business (in two brilliant montages that built on one another in terms of style, pacing and expectations) she had a scene with Chuck (Michael McKean) in which she remained almost completely silent. The accompanying episode of the "Better Call Saul" Insider podcast gave Seehorn time to talk at length about the idea that “to not say anything has extreme power around a bunch of people that talk a lot.”

Silent storytelling is only one aspect of why “Better Call Saul” is the best show on television. It works in tandem with a multitude of storytelling tools, which lend themselves to endless exploration and analysis. Next time, I’ll take a look at the way scenes of heavy dialogue are crafted.