Spoilers for the entirety of The Bear’s third season ahead.
There are many ways to interpret the term “motherfucker.†It can be celebratory, like, “Yes! Motherfucker! We did it.†It can be an expression of wonderment. Or it can be angry: “Motherfucker.â€
When Carmy says the word in the final moments of The Bear’s third season, its meaning is left open to interpretation but seems to lean toward the angry variant. The nature of the Chicago Tribune review that prompts Carmy to utter that phrase is also left open to interpretation. We see flashes of various adjectives — confusing, excellent, innovative, sloppy, delicious, inconsistent — but because Carmy has been living so deeply inside his own head all season, anxiety-spiraling through mental images of what reviews of The Bear might say, it’s not 100 percent clear whether these are also figments of his imagination or reflections of what the piece actually says. While the Google Alert for the review is visible on his phone, technically, the scene never shows him opening the article.
That said, it’s fair to assume that those are real excerpts from the review, especially since Carmy’s phone contains several notifications of missed calls from Computer and Cicero, who announced in “Apologies†that he would stop funding the restaurant if the Tribune review was bad. Carmy’s “motherfucker†implies he is already preparing for the worst possible outcome: a less-than-stellar assessment of his business followed by the demise of that business. But that can’t be fully confirmed; the episode smash cuts to a “To Be Continued†title card.
This cliffhanger ending is admittedly frustrating, especially because The Bear hasn’t ended its seasons this way before. Both the first, which concludes with the discovery of all the tomato can money and the decision to rebrand the restaurant, and the second, which builds toward the season finale’s semi-disastrous soft opening of The Bear, created a sense of narrative momentum that led to definitive finishes. The third season lands like part one of a story that won’t really wrap up until the end of season four. If some viewers threw up their hands in exasperation, I understand. Mine were in the air as the credits started to roll, too.
From a thematic standpoint, though, I also understand why series creator Christopher Storer, who wrote and directed “Forever,†went this route. The idea that Cicero would be given some cut-and-dry excuse for having to yank his investment, or that the review haunting Carmy’s existence would be either glowing or career-ending, is not in tune with The Bear’s interest in reflecting the realities of working in the restaurant industry. Of course the review would be mixed — maybe even, as my colleague Kathryn VanArendonk suggests, mixed with more praise for the sandwich shop side of the business than Carmy’s and Syd’s high-end baby. If you’ve been watching this season, it’s obvious that the staff is doing some things very well (especially the sandwiches) and struggling with others, which, ironically, can also be said of The Bear’s third season. Winding up with the equivalent of a Rotten Tomatoes score that’s neither fresh nor rotten also makes sense for Carmy’s journey.
From the very beginning of The Bear, it has been obvious that Carmy’s love language, at least as a chef, is words of affirmation. He deeply craves outside approval because he can’t muster confidence from within. In the season-one finale, he admits in an Al-Anon meeting that he started working in restaurants because his brother, Michael, wouldn’t let him work at The Beef. Basically, he launched an entire career just to impress his older sibling. And as this season reminds us repeatedly with its “haunting†motif, Carmy continues to be obsessed with the harsh treatment he received under the supervision of chef David Fields (Joel McHale) while working in New York.
Chef Fields’s abusive language and withering glances live in a fully furnished penthouse inside Carmy’s mind. Every choice he makes in season three — from writing up that absurd list of non-negotiables to constantly undermining Sydney by dictating what’s on the daily menu — stems from Carmy’s desire to be a version of himself that would finally impress that snobby, nasty chef. That’s why he’s so flabbergasted in the finale when he finally confronts the man, expecting some sort of apology, a thing Carmy is reluctant to grant to other people who clearly deserve it (Claire). Carmy believes that hearing “I’m sorry†will somehow sage away all the self-doubt and pain he’s been carrying with him, not realizing that the self-doubt and pain were already there before chef Fields started barking at him for putting too many elements on a plate. Chef Fields still believes he turned Carmy into a successful chef, and Carmy still can’t see that the great chef within him was already there before Fields bullied his way into becoming Carmy’s inner voice, making him think that a great leader maintains total control and must bring everyone up to their level rather than meeting them where they are and nurturing them. For all his interest in “vibrant collaboration,†all season long Carmy retreats inward, insists that his way is the right way, and creates a stressful environment for everyone. It’s heartbreaking that Carmy so vividly recalls the panic attacks and ulcers chef Fields gave him and can’t see that he’s doing the same thing to Sydney and Tina.
You know who didn’t run her kitchen like a total dick? Chef Terry (Olivia Colman). The extended montage of a season-three premiere makes that point in a quick flashback at Ever, where Carmy shouts at his mentee, Luca, to hurry up with a dish. Chef Terry reprimands them and insists on quiet. Instead of piling more chaos on top of existing chaos, she tries to build a foundation of serenity that will make managing the chaos less stressful. It’s interesting that chef Terry is, as far as the series has shown us, the only woman that Carmy has ever worked for and that he seemingly took no lessons from that experience. Instead he internalized what he’s learned from temperamental men, a thread I hope that The Bear tugs at harder in season four.
The finale hints that maybe Carmy is inching closer to evolving on this front. After the funeral dinner at Ever, he has a conversation with the retiring chef Terry and asks, “What would you tell yourself when you were where I am?†She responds: “I think I’d tell myself that you have no idea what you’re doing, and therefore you’re invincible.†She also rather pointedly asks him to start calling her Andrea, because she now sees him as an equal, a gift David will never grant him because chef Fields is and always will be an asshole.
Carmy has often felt like he doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he’s never been able to feel like that’s okay, that it can even be a superpower when you’re surrounded by gifted colleagues, which Carmy is. He’s never figured out how to derive strength from simply accepting himself and his flaws. He has just kept chasing approval — from his brother, even though he’s gone; from chef Fields, even though he’s no longer in Carmy’s life; from the Chicago Tribune and a critic he doesn’t even know. (By the way, isn’t it nice that The Bear thinks newspapers are still this important?) An unequivocal rave from the Tribune would have given Carmy exactly what he thinks he needs: written, public proof that he is great at what he does. A terrible review would cause him to spiral further. But a mixed review suggests he still has work to do. Because he does.