How Breaking Bad Used a Technique from Shakespeare to Become One of the Best TV Shows Ever

Much has been made of the way the writers of Breaking Bad — which debuted exactly 10 years ago to modest ratings on January 20, 2008, before growing into one of the defining shows of its era — wrote themselves into corners, before improvising their way out.

They’d often get their protagonist, meth-cooking schoolteacher Walter White (played brilliantly by Bryan Cranston), into a seemingly impossible-to-resolve dilemma, and then reveal that he was far more devious than viewers had ever expected. It made him a compelling character to watch, even when he was growing more and more amoral, but it was also a lot of work for the show’s writers, who had to make his schemes seem completely unexpected yet also completely inevitable once you knew what they were.

Yet Breaking Bad wouldn’t have worked had it not found a way to perfectly balance those smaller, often improvised strokes against a big picture that felt perfectly plotted when you stepped back and took a look at it. How did it mesh these two seemingly contradictory qualities?

The answer is that show creator Vince Gilligan and his writers had a plan — just in the broadest of strokes. And they were able to realize that plan because they had an almost airtight understanding of story structure and how it works at both micro and macro levels. So let’s talk about William Shakespeare.

Five-Act Structure Underlies Both Shakespeare’s Plays and Many of Your Favorite TV Shows

Most of the time when we talk about cinematic story structure, we’re talking about the three-act structure with a beginning, middle, and end, which looks something like this:

And almost as much has been made of how Breaking Bad, despite being the heavily serialized journey of a man from mild-mannered teacher to crime boss, worked beautifully on an episode-to-episode level. Today’s serialized dramas seem to have learned all the wrong lessons from it, in fact, believing that knowing the big picture is more important than sweating the details.

Many screenwriting students and interns (including myself, last summer) are taught three-act structure in this fashion — have a character climb a tree, throw rocks at them, then get them down from the tree.

That works well in movies because movies have finite running times. On a long-running, serialized TV show, structuring three acts becomes much tougher, because the second act tends to stretch on forever and the writers run out of rocks to throw at the characters. That’s why many of the best TV shows use a five-act structure — or that thing you learned about in high school/college when you were reading Romeo and Juliet for the first time.

The main difference here is time. You’ll notice the shape is roughly the same, but the five-act structure gives both the buildup to and fall from the climax whole acts to breathe. Instead of getting stuck in a never-ending second act, much of the story is pushed to the fourth act or the fallout from the big moment. And on TV, time is everything:

The five acts consist of the following, which I have paired with how each act perfectly corresponds to each of Breaking Bad’s five seasons:

  • Act 1: Something happens to spark the story into motion, and the characters begin making choices that will set everything else spinning along. (In Breaking Bad season one, Walter begins cooking meth and realizes he kind of likes it.)

  • Act 2: The characters still have a chance to escape their fates, but something in their psyches keeps driving them forward. (In Breaking Bad season two, Walter delves deeper and deeper into the Albuquerque underworld, meeting figures like Saul Goodman and Gus Fring for the first time. The season ends with a “warning from God,” in the form of a plane crash.)

  • Act 3: Featuring the “climax,” this is where everything shifts. Something happens to flip everything on its ear, and the story reaches a point where the characters cannot escape what’s coming. (In Breaking Bad season three, Walter leaves the drug business behind for a while, but ultimately decides to join Gus’s empire. I would pinpoint the show’s “climax” as the controversial episode “Fly,” in which Walter has the chance to come clean to his closest colleague and decides not to.)

  • Act 4: The characters, trapped by fate but not yet aware of it, are sucked toward the endgame. In a tragedy, this is often when the body count begins to mount (or the audience can see this coming). (In Breaking Bad season four, the war between Gus and Walter dominates everything that happens.)

  • Act 5: Everything ends, often in blood and horror. There is some quiet musing on what it all means. A few characters escape with their lives, but even they will likely have long years of therapy ahead of them. (In Breaking Bad season five, Walter takes over the Albuquerque drug world but finds himself pairing up with even more unsavory characters. Eventually, just about everybody dies or has their lives utterly ruined.)

The five-act structure can be used for anything — Shakespeare wrote both tragedies and comedies, after all — but modern writers seem to use it for tragic dramas more often than not.

The Five-Act Structure Let Breaking Bad Know Where It Was Going without Having to Know Where It Was Going

To be sure, this kind of structure can end up hampering a story in the latter part of its run, when things start to feel too inevitable (something I would argue hurt some of Breaking Bad’s later episodes). And it tends to work better with shows that have a singular protagonist (or only a couple of protagonists) than shows with large ensembles. Mad Men, for instance, didn’t really work as a five-act show on the macro level, but that was fine because it was charting the growth of a whole bunch of disparate characters.

But the five-act structure unquestionably helped give Breaking Bad the tragic weight it wouldn’t have managed without that sort of rigor. The horror and power of “Ozymandias,” the show’s third-from-last episode and probably its finest hour, wouldn’t have worked without having all of that careful buildup, but it also worked because on some level, we’re trained to expect these sorts of late-in-story revelations to have that much horror and power.

And the five-act structure also meant that the show’s choice to make nearly everything (including that plane crash!) stem directly from Walter’s choice to start cooking meth didn’t feel as forced as it could have. Again, we’re used to stories like this hinging, sometimes improbably, on the choices of the protagonist, and it’s not hard to see Walter as someone like Hamlet or Richard III, consumed by his own demons as much as he sets demons in motion.

It’s clear that everybody in television wants to make the next Breaking Bad. But what too many writers miss about Breaking Bad is that its big story, which feels so carefully planned, was only planned in the loosest of senses. Instead, the series works because of how well it understood what is needed to make a story successful. That pitch-perfect comprehension of the skeleton that underlies a great story meant the show’s writers could feel free to detach from worrying about the big picture to sweat the small stuff and come up with some of the most memorable TV moments ever.

Disclaimer: If you haven’t watched Breaking Bad by now and somehow made it through this entire article, sorry for the spoilers.