Is Season 3 of The Bear Too Uncomfortable To Watch?
A conversation on the long term results of trauma and it's link to the endless pursuit of unachievable success
Has The Bear flown too close to the sun?
Riding on the coattails of its third-season release, it seems that The Bear has fallen victim to mainstream culture's eventual contempt for successful shows. It’s not unprecedented— we’ve seen this phenomenon with countless popular shows; when something (or someone) reaches a certain threshold of success, the eventual demise of its popularity is typically to follow. Season 3 of The Bear has been met with review headlines like “Why ‘The Bear’ Is So Hard To Watch”, “The Bear Season Three Review— unbelievably frustrating", and “The Bear Season 3 proves it: This is not a good show”, one has to wonder: where has this sudden disdain for The Bear come from?
Perhaps audiences are growing weary of the show's relentless portrayal of trauma, or rather, Carmy's inability to escape its grip. In her review for The Atlantic, Sophie Gilbert writes, “the show also appears less interested in telling a story than in offering an immersive trip for viewers into the recesses and faulty wiring of Carmy’s brain. We’re subsumed, for better and worse, in The Bear’s trauma plot.” The Hollywood Reporter’s review, written by Angie Han and Daniel Fienberg, seems to agree, “It’s heavy on tone poems and recursive montages and excavations of trauma, and lighter than ever on warmth… Carmy’s mental health seems to have backtracked or gotten stuck in place, and arguably taken the show’s entire emotional landscape with it.”
Has the FX hit gotten lost in its in-depth, and at times almost unwatchable, exploration of trauma? Yes, I think it has. Yet, there's a compelling layer to this—the show plunges audiences into the psyche of a profoundly traumatized individual, creating an intensely uncomfortable immersion for the average viewer.
*Spoilers ahead
The other night as I finished Episode 10 of Season 3, I found myself trying to grapple with the submerision of intense emotions this season provokes. During the season finale we watch as the many talented chefs of Carmy’s past appear like ghosts, gathering for the funeral of the beloved restaurant, Ever. He’s forced to sit with them while they sip wine and indulge in the kind of multi-course meal it would take me 4 paycheques to afford, all gushing about their love of cooking, where their passion for the craft comes from, reminiscing on the good, the bad, and the ugly. It’s an uncomfortable contrast; Carmy’s peers, these great chefs, all appear so happy and ignited by passion, whereas Carmy has become a shell of a person as a result of his success.
As a sidenote, I found the most interesting contrast to be the difference between Luca and Carmy; Luca acts as a foil to Carmy. He is everything Carmy could be but never will be because he’s forever blinded by his insatiable desire for success.
I'm not surprised that many viewers struggled with this season. People turn to television for enjoyment, to escape their problems, and to drift into another universe. Although classified as a comedy (for award purposes at least), The Bear, and this season in particular, is anything but— the most comedic relief comes from the Faks and a random John Cena cameo. Yet, where this season lacks warmth, it compensates with raw honesty. Honesty is uncomfortable and seldom makes for a pleasant viewing experience.
Daniel Fienberg hits the nail on the head, “I was actually a bit shocked that The Bear became a smash hit [at all]; my initial assumption was that the high-intensity experience of being crammed into a claustrophobic kitchen would trigger PTSD or general discomfort from as many viewers as found joy” and that “most of the things this season that have sparked an absence of joy are intentional.” I agree with Fienberg, I don't believe The Bear was ever intended to be a mainstream sensation. My assumption is that its creation was a love letter of sorts. A love letter for a niche audience, an audience who can resonate with the emotional strain of the restaurant industry, and more intimately, the turmoil Carmy endures for it, and because of it.
This season was a perfect illustration of the cascading effects of Complex Post-Tramautic-Stress Disorder, otherwise known as CPTSD, which, according to Medical News Today is “closely related to traditional PTSD but may have additional symptoms” and “can result if a person experiences prolonged or repeated trauma over months or years. A person with the condition may experience additional symptoms to those that define PTSD.” In the subreddit r/CPTSD_NSCommunity, users with CPTSD reflect on the relatability of Carmy’s experiences, with one user writing, “It was relatable to me for sure, both because of the family dynamics and because I’ve spent my entire working life in restaurants. I’m 40yo and just now working out with a therapist that my time spent in food service is directly connected to my fawning responses, hypervigilance and operating above my window of tolerance… I’m trapped.”
Although it’s never outrightly said, nor confirmed, a strong case can be made that Carmy is the poster child for CPTSD, something I clocked back in Season 1 Episode 8 after listening to his AI-anon meeting monologue. Some of the most heartbreaking quotes from this 7-minute monologue are:
“And the routine of the kitchen was so consistent, and exacting, and busy and hard and alive and I lost track of time and he died.”
“And the more he wouldn’t respond, and the more our relationship kinda strained, the deeper into this I went and the better I got. And the more people I cut out, the quieter my life got.”
Fast forward to Season 2, and we encounter an unexpected twist: Carmy falls for Claire, whom he tenderly refers to as 'peace' despite their cataphoric ending. The season unveils a new facet of Carmy—one where he opens up, becomes vulnerable, and tentatively falls in love, or falls as deeply as he is capable. We witness the profound impact this has on him. As his heart fills with a sense of anomalous warmth, the restaurant begins to crumble, for reasons both within and beyond his control. Yet, Carmy shoulders the weight of this disarray, shifting blame to his relationship as a means to maintain control amidst the chaos.
After years of trying to outrun himself, Carmy has finally reached the summit, only to discover he is still stuck with himself, and no Michelin Star can change that.
During another AI-anon meeting in Season 2, he opens up about his childhood, saying that “when I was a kid, anything that would give me any sort of excitement, or amusement, or enjoyment, it always got kind of fucked” and that he has to “remind myself to breathe sometimes, I have to remind myself to be present, remind myself the sky is not falling, there is no other shoe, which is incredibly difficult because there is always another shoe.”
After everything collapses in the Season 2 finale, we find Carmy back where he started—or perhaps in an even darker place. He remains stagnant, standing still as the world around him burns, or more accurately, as he ignites the bedlam surrounding him. The series skillfully dances around the word 'trauma’. It’s never explicitly stated, yet it’s unmistakably woven between every storyline we’re privy to, especially Carmy’s. Following last season’s Christmas episode, it would be impossible to overlook the profound traumatic upbringing that Carmy and his siblings endured.
As I watched the Season 3 finale I had to pause it multiple times. I started wondering about one’s desire to achieve greatness. Why do any of us do what we do? Why do we put our bodies and minds through so much stress? Is it passion? Is it love? Is it a desire for connection? Do we have to be pushed to the very brink of insanity to become the best? Must we emerge from the fray, bloodied and bruised, to grasp the heights of greatness?
In his relentless pursuit of excellence, Carmy only isolates himself further. He changes the menu daily, imposes unattainable standards on himself and the entire restaurant, and pushes himself so incessantly that the world around him fades away. Work becomes his sole distraction. Despite achieving levels of success that others may only dream of, he arrives at the crushing realization that none of it matters, because he is still stuck with himself. The more he shuts himself off from the world, the deeper he sinks into his inner emotional turmoil, which bleeds into the rest of the season, infecting every aspect of the plot.
In an article on family dynamics in Psychology Today, Jean Kim M.D. explores the brilliant psychological rawness of The Bear, stating “He is trying in some ways to undo and conquer his family trauma but is also subconsciously immersed in it, braising in it, burning in it.” When you’re constantly trying to outrun something (in Carmy’s case, himself), a fierce desire ignites within you, propelling you to keep running, pushing, scraping. By the time you look up, you find yourself miles ahead of the pack. You’re standing at the mountain's peak, only to realize you’re alone. No matter where you go, you can't escape yourself.
After years of trying to outrun himself, Carmy has finally reached the summit, only to discover he is still stuck with himself, and no Michelin Star can change that.
I drew several parallels to other films that depict the same unabating push-and-pull dynamic that often comes as a result of trauma: Whiplash (2014) and Isle of Dogs (2018). Both masterfully capture the ceaseless tug and torment that trauma inflicts on someone. Notably, Whiplash has been particularly triggering for many suffering from CPTSD and PTSD, primarily due to its portrayal of abuse and the intense power struggle between Andrew and his teacher, Terence, which mirrors Carmy's tumultuous relationship with the brilliant yet tyrannical chef, Thomas Keller. Research indicates that these intense portrayals of trauma can deeply affect viewers, as they resonate with their experiences of trauma and the subsequent emotional turmoil. The raw, unfiltered honesty in these narratives, while uncomfortable, reflects the complex psychological impacts of trauma and these harrowing depictions offer some of the most honest narratives in contemporary media.
There is beauty in struggle, yes, but how much can you endure before you feel fragmented into two, three, four, or even five separate selves, all vying for dominance within you? Is there hidden strength buried beneath the turmoil? A study published in the Wall Street Journal by Clinical Psychologist Meg Jay suggests that trauma survivors are often more likely to succeed. The study analyzed the lives of 400 extraordinarily high achievers and found that 75% had endured significant childhood challenges, often referred to as traumas. While experiencing trauma early in life can foster resilience, it also brings the risk of lifelong struggles with alcoholism, drug abuse, depression, and chronic health conditions.
This dual nature of trauma—its ability to both create resilience and perpetuate suffering—mirrors the themes explored in this season of The Bear. Critics argue that this season felt too much like a filler; it was slow and boring and didn’t live up to the hype of the two previous seasons (their words not mine). I can understand the dissatisfaction. However, I found myself so emotionally tied to this season because it so truthfully paints the image of how it feels to be fighting against yourself.
The season finale left me pondering: what distinguishes those who achieve greatness from those who don’t?
Is it trauma? Does trauma ignite a fire within us that drives us to want to rise high above the rest with the delusional goal of escaping suffering? Perhaps. Oftentimes, to achieve greatness one needs to sacrifice so much of oneself that maybe only those who have already endured endless suffering are willing to take the plunge; self-destruction is a much more alluring fate than remaining trapped in one's circumstances, at least from Carmy’s perspective. When the alternative is eternal despair, sacrificing everything becomes easier. Talent alone isn’t enough. What truly separates the greats from well, everyone else, is their drive, ambition, and most importantly, resilience. And nothing breeds resilience quite like trauma.
When you’re caught in a cycle of trauma, there are moments when it feels like everything is ablaze, and part of you is drawn to the fire. For a fleeting moment, you wonder what it would be like to give in and let it consume you. Your instinct isn’t to extinguish the flames or run away but rather to stand and stare. Sometimes, you might even flirt with the danger, let it burn the tips of your fingers, feeling the heat of the flames on your cheeks. Eventually, someone comes and pushes you out of the way, or maybe they put out the fire. Or perhaps you snap out of it and flee. But the fire always returns until you learn to put it out yourself. Every time you escape, you make a vow to yourself never to entertain those thoughts again, yet you always find yourself back where you started, standing in front of the flames, staring. The fire is a metaphor, if that isn’t clear.
What I’m trying to get at is that trauma lingers, and people often drown out its screams with substances, romance, intense physical activity, or success—or a combination of all. Pick your poison.
So, the critics may write off Season 3 of The Bear as a filler season, they may be disappointed, and I can understand why. But, for me, this season perfectly encapsulated what it’s like to live with trauma; the setbacks, the denumbing, the desire to set your life ablaze. It also captured the imprisonment one feels during the moment they’ve achieved the success they’ve always been after, only to realise they’re still stuck with themselves.
Carmy spends this season walking into the fire, testing his strength to walk away, to not engulf himself. But, he’s losing the battle this time around. For the majority of this season, he feels disconnected from reality, himself, and his family. Only two options are left for him: surrender to the flames or finally face himself.