“Kind of 2014”, admonishes Sydney (Ayo Edebiri) about a foam–type–situation that Carmy (Jeremy Allen White) puts on a dish he’s R&D’ing. It’s flashy, it’s new, it’s stylish, and it’s full of so much air. The Bear, season three, is similar. I can’t look away, but the second I start digesting what I’m watching, I realize that there’s not a lot of substance. I’m paying however much money about seven hours of my time is worth to participate in a 10–course meal that is beautiful, and not at all untasty, but is far from fulfilling.
I’m not entirely complaining about the focus on style. In the same way that people watch Bridgerton to see hot people make out, I unashamedly watch The Bear to watch a very attractive Ayo Edebiri and Jeremy Allen White make some very attractive food. (I also watch Bridgerton to see hot people make out.) And season three revels in the fact that you eat with your eyes first. There are heretofore unseen levels of nearly pornographic coverage of plump green peas, glistening batons of wagyu, and ready–to–burst bright orange pearls of salmon roe.
But I also watch The Bear to see some damn good television, and unfortunately, this season didn’t entirely deliver in the way that the previous two have.
The Bear is a great show with compelling characters, fast humor, and some really stellar acting. As with the previous two seasons, the best part of the show is watching Sydney and Carmy’s codependence and misplaced desire for what the other resents about themself (Carmy wants to be young and free; Sydney wants to be confidently in charge; both of them want to be the best, damn the consequences). And the cast of characters surrounding them are lively, toxically familial with each other, and deeply watchable.
But there’s something missing this season. First and foremost, Marcus (Lionel Boyce). The Bear is an ensemble show whose non–Sydney–and–Carmy characters generally get one fantastic episode centered around them (season two’s Honeydew and Forks; season three’s Napkins and Ice Chips). It’s not all that surprising that Marcus, whose episode was in season two, doesn’t get as much screen time this go around. That being said, Marcus’s presence has previously softened the show a lot—he lets the viewer release.
It’s hard to have that when he’s struggling with his grief. The show walks us through Marcus coping with his mother’s death beautifully; his reconciliation with Sydney as they bond over being members of the “Dead Mom’s Club” broke my heart. But his greatest stength as a character is his ability to match all of Sydney and Carmy’s passion and obsession without the gut–wrenching anxiety they project onto themselves and everyone around them. Keep everything having to do with Marcus dealing with the loss of his mother, but add a bit more of what we see in the glimpses of him striving towards his sleight–of–hand dish, because those are the moments where the audience is reminded about how wonderful cooking can be.
That role still gets filled somewhat, albeit by a different character. Episode six, Napkins, is centered around Tina (Liza Colón-Zayas), and is a fantastic directorial debut from Ayo Edebiri. Napkins is a refreshing break from the non–stop chaos and fast–paced anxiety that twists its way around the throat of nearly every episode.
That doesn’t make it a peaceful reprieve; the audience feels the slow snowballing build of Tina’s stretch of unemployment acutely. The pit in our stomach grows as her desperation does, culminating in her breakdown in front of Mikey at The Beef. But it’s a kind, caring episode that reminds us that cooking doesn’t have to be life or death; for some people, it’s just a livelihood that they’ve come to love. For Tina, there’s love and skill, but there’s no innate flash in the pan for her—it’s more gradual, and it starts with a foundation of routine and stability that bleeds into art and emotion, which is a journey that is validated the same way that Sydney and Carmy’s slavish wunderkind tendencies are.
Strangely, though, the season feels filled with a little too much niceness. Is it weird to say I wanted more of these characters yelling at each other? Previously compelling dynamics have evened out. The Tina–Carmy tension is a non–issue in this season. The Sydney–Richie (Ebon Moss-Bachrach) tension is disappointing. Richie in general is sort of just … too mellow now, even within the context of his chill dad reform arc, with the exception of him and Carmy blowing up at each other in their typical fashion.
But the family member that’s most airbrushed is Michael (Jon Bernthal), Carmy’s dead brother, who has previously been a source of complication for Carmy, who loves and wants to idolize Mikey, but who keeps learning more about Mikey’s drug problem and shady activities. “He’s quite literally glowing,” a friend pointed out to me when I complained about how perfect Mikey was in this season. So much of what has made The Bear addictive and realistic–feeling has been the family dysfunction, and Mikey as a well–meaning but flawed spectre hanging over The Beef/The Bear has been a microcosm of that. It’s weird that he’s flawless in every flashback. It’s boring, and it’s not who we know him to be.
It’s nowhere near as boring as everything surrounding Claire is, though. Someone let Molly Gordon go already! This is not a unique opinion in the slightest; season two’s press around Claire largely seemed to revolve around if she was or wasn’t a Manic Pixie Dream Girl, and that conversation is still sparking around the internet. She’s incredibly uncompelling and frustratingly so—Molly Gordon is a talented actress who is given nothing to do.
Claire is boring while fulfilling her role as an external anchor, Carmy’s reminder that there can be a world outside of the tailspin of The Bear. And, by being assigned those two roles, she’s inherently excluded from becoming a self–actualized individual outside of Carmy. The Bear has proven it can have some fantastic development of its female characters—Natalie, aka Sugar (Abby Elliott) comes to mind as one such character who was largely sidelined in season one and truly came into her own in seasons two and three. Claire either needs to be heavily developed or written out, stat.
I still care about these people, and I still care about this world. I’m intrigued by—spoiler alert—the offer Sydney gets to become CDC of a competing restaurant, and I’m excited to see where that goes in season four. Hopefully, that season can tighten up a bit and return to the core dynamics between Syd and Carmy and the rest of the group, with less focus on celebrity cameos and more on the little details that stood out in this season—Richie removing his wedding ring, the contrast between the way Sydney envisions/develops dishes in season two versus the way Carmy does in season three, the fact that there’s almost always a clock in the background to constantly remind us that every second counts.
I’ll end at the beginning—season three, episode one, Tomorrow. It’s a slow montage that takes us through the past and present of our central characters as we see them all grapple with the explosive end of season two. Like the rest of the season, my feelings on it are mixed.
I’m not at all mad about the shots upon shots of drool–inducing, gorgeous food. I’m not mad at the pace, either; being forced to take a second to breathe amidst the chaos feels apt. The audience is trapped in their own televisual walk–in freezer. But there’s a repetitiveness and lack of forward motion to the episode that is felt all throughout the season, and that is the biggest reason for the season’s mixed quality.
Tomorrow takes us back to yesteryear, showing Carmy enjoying his time working under Chef Terry (Olivia Colman) and getting verbally abused working under Chef David (Joel McHale). It’s a path a little too well–trod at this point. We’ve seen more than enough of how those two chefs have impacted him—we don’t need to be told again and again, especially in an episode where there’s not much else driving the story forward. And the adherence to Carmy’s Restaurant Trauma and Carmy’s Restaurant Trauma Alone permeates throughout a season that is noticeably void of some of the previous shad–dealings, dysfunction–beyond–the–nuclear–group plotlines of seasons past.
There’s a bit of listlessness in season three of The Bear. Fewer episodes have arcs that start and end in the season, and everyone is always having A Big Conversation about Something (that they already had about three conversations about) in a way that’s far too emotionally mature and open to be enjoyable or believable. It’s less gripping, less driving, less affecting. But while this season wasn’t great, it wasn’t bad. After all the mixed reviews, let’s hope, it—and its titular restaurant—can come back stronger in season four.
