In Defense of "The Bear" as a Comedy: Because Grief Tastes Bittersweet

“The Bear,” FX's critically acclaimed series, has been praised for its raw and honest portrayal of grief. The show's protagonist, Carmen (Carmy) Bearzatto, played by Jeremy Allen White, is reeling from his brother’s death by suicide—and figuring out how to revive the restaurant that’s been left to him. While it’s not surprising that “The Bear” continues to set records at The Emmy Awards because of the talent behind it, viewers and critics alike have reacted in disbelief that the show is categorized as a “Comedy Series.” Having been listed in the past alongside the likes of “Ted Lasso” and “Abbott Elementary,” “The Bear” is clearly not like the others. 

And while, yes, I am aware of the award-winning strategy behind categorizing the show this way, I, as the founder of a grief-support organization, am in full support of “The Bear” as a comedy. Comedy is the only place for it to kind-of fit because of the grief that punctuates the show. 

Comedy is about highlighting the humor of a contrast. I love the Encyclopaedia Britannica’s definition: “…[the] comic view is a radical dualism; efforts to follow the way of rational sobriety are forever being interrupted by the infirmities of the flesh. The duality that tragedy views as a fatal contradiction in the nature of things, comedy views as one more instance of the incongruous reality that everyone must live with as best they can.”

We all live with the seemingly incongruous reality of grief as best we can. The pain can be so absurd, so unlike what our life was like before the loss, that sometimes we just have to laugh. That’s how I felt when I got the call that my father died suddenly on March 14, 2020, in the middle of the world already shutting down over Covid. And I imagine that’s how my ex-husband must’ve felt a year later in our kitchen when I told him our marriage was over after he’d brought me lunch. I get critiqued by my social media audience sometimes for smiling (which is apparently my default face) as I share intimate thoughts about loss, direct to camera. So many of us struggle to navigate the idea that loss isn’t just something we cry about. We worry that we’re not being sad enough or authentic in our pain if we’re not crying– or that it’s unsettling or offensive, even, to smile while we’re talking about it. 

The truth is, grief is never just one feeling at a time. Author Susan Cain coined a word for this sense of both-ness: bittersweet. She defines the idea as, “the recognition that light and dark, birth and death—bitter and sweet—are forever paired. ‘Days of honey, days of onion,’ as an Arabic proverb puts it.” Musician Nick Cave spoke of the bittersweetness of grief, too. “Joy seems to leap forth out of suffering,” he said. “Regardless of your loss, you see how beautiful, how meaningful, how joyful the world can suddenly be.” It’s the same idea of author Kate Bowler’s mantra, “Life is so beautiful, life is so hard.” 

There is ambiguity and fluidity to grief and grieving, the pain and the beauty and the love and the laughter that all ride shotgun with it. It’s this both-ness of loss that “The Bear” has captured collectively in its three seasons. 

I want to call out the bittersweetness of Sydney Adamou’s character, played by Ayo Edebri, specifically. We find out in season two that she lost her mother when she was a child. Chef Sydney's grief had been invisible to her peers at the restaurant, and to viewers, up until then. When Carmy finally learns of Sydney’s hidden loss, he reacts alongside what the audience is thinking: “I feel like I should’ve known that.” Just when we think we’ve moved on from our grief, when we’ve successfully opened a brand new restaurant, we may find ourselves vomiting in the alleyway behind it. Season two closes with a shot of Sydney smiling face, after throwing up, at the end of a successful opening night, tears welling in her eyes. What may appear as pride to some, reveals itself as grief to those of us who know the truth about both-ness. And season three ends in a similar vein: Sydney has seemingly “made it.” She’s joined an elite gathering of Chicago chefs, and even hosts an afterparty at her apartment. But the final view we have of her this season is when she excuses herself to have a panic attack, alone, outside her own front door. 

Grief is always incongruous. It defies a static genre– which is why comedy is the only place for “The Bear” to be. Grief is never just one feeling at a time, never just tears, never just laughs, never just nostalgia, never just depression. Even if we’re smiling, our grief is still there. Grief has no binary, no normal, and no timeline. And, just when you think you’ve figured it out, you taste a new flavor.