Structure, Math, and Intention in "The Bear"

On the successes and struggles of "The Bear"

Part 1: Story Math

Story structure is endlessly fascinating to me.

There’s a million reasons for this, but suffice it to say that to me, story structure is intention writ-large. it’s a series of systems and set ups that help to drive a larger idea home in the cleanest, most efficient way possible.

There’s an artistry to accomplishing this, too. People rag on James Cameron for the Avatar movies, but there’s a reason his last three films have traded the biggest box office title back and forth. His films are structured for maximum clarity of intention and delivery of information. The first hour always gives you every piece of information you need to understand the story. The second hour demonstrates how all of these pieces work in practice. And the third hour is pure action; a euphoric sprint to the finish made possible by the fact that you have a complete understanding of the story, world, and characters. This structure almost always sends the audience out on a high note, too. An incredible feat given that what you’ve just seen might be the sinking of the Titanic.

What story structure fundamentally does is give your story a clear and distinct way way to deliver information to the audience. There’s tons of ways to do it; three act, five act, and eight sequence are some of the most common options. But they all serve the same goal: breaking up information into digestible chunks that guide the audience toward an end goal. Those chunks are usually thought of as scenes. String together a group of scenes, you get a sequence. String together a couple sequences, you get an act. Rinse and repeat.

Story structure is also simple math. It’s A + B = C. Except in this case:

• A = Character(s)

• B= A Problem

• C = The Decision Made to Address the Problem

Now, I’m simplifying a lot here, but to do this math, you also have to know things like who wants what, what will happen if they don’t get it, and why now. And I want to stress that being able to figure these things out takes time and energy. It is extremely hard to make something look simple.

But assuming you’re able to accomplish these things and do the math, a scene should end with a character making a decision about how to address a problem. This is called a Scene Goal. Scene Goals are small goals that move characters through the story and ultimately build up to one big decision or action that we call act breaks (or sequence breaks). I find it easiest to think of Act Breaks as a big decision that can’t be undone. They spring a character into their next series of small decisions to confront the new phase of their Big Problem. Luke Skywalker making the decision to trust Obi-Wan is a Scene Goal; Luke Skywalker deciding to leave his planet and join the rebellion is an Act Break. It’s also important to remember that how a character feels about the problem or the decision is characterization and texture. It is not the same thing as making a decision.

It is insanely, stupidly hard to get this math (and all its associated elements) to add up, but that’s the job of writing. You goal is to tell a cohesive, fluid story that guides the audience through an emotional experience. It can be funny, it can be dramatic, it can be deliberately confusing- but above all, it has to function. If you skip one of the parts in the equation, or decide the outcome should be F instead of C, the audience will know. They might not be able to articulate it. But they might say things like “the dialogue didn’t make any sense” or “I don’t get why they did that.” And to be clear, sometimes people just don’t vibe with stuff. I don’t like watching horror movies because often times, people are there for the kills. That’s not how I like to watch stuff. But it’s up to you as the writer to know the story you’re trying to tell inside and out, check your math, and when necessary, recognize the note behind the note i.e. know when someone’s complaint about the dialogue is actually about the story math.

Story math can get especially complicated in visual mediums because you’re not only dealing with Storytelling Intention, but Visual Intention- blocking, lighting, camera movement-, and in some circumstances, Business Intention- the economics behind the making of film. I’m of the opinion that Visual Intention should always be a direct extension of Story Intention. I think everything should be trying to support what is on the page. But because film and television are such expensive and collaborative mediums, sometimes Story and Visual Intensions take a back seat to Business Intention. Think of the way Marvel is constantly retconning its own story decisions. Even down to the way they choose (or don’t choose) to costume their characters. It’s true that sometimes your hands are tied and you just have a make a decision and live with it. No matter the scenario, it’s critical to remember what your original intention was in trying to tell the story in the first place.

Part 2: Will He/Won’t He

My partner and I started Season 4 of The Bear this past week. I’m a huge fan of the show. I think it’s a series that gets at the heart of what it means to create (and survive on the fruits of your creations) in a way almost no other media I’ve seen does. It does this while mixing in elements of class and family-trauma drama, and some of the most big-hearted storytelling you can find in modern media.

Season 4 has gotten mixed-to-good reviews, which is similar to Season 3, but very far from the cultural juggernaut highs of Seasons 1 & 2. The base competency of the series is such that I think it’s nearly impossible for the show to be totally bad. The show has always been astoundingly well directed, edited, and performed. It made a name for itself early on with its pulse pounding editing and knock-down-drag-out screaming matches (despite the ostensibly low stakes setting). The writing, too, was strong though it was hardly the focus in the way that the performances and directing tended to be.

The first two seasons benefitted from the sheer propulsion of their central goals. The first season’s core tension was Carmy trying to keep The Beef afloat while simultaneously reshaping the ugly team dynamics. Season 2 focused on Carmy rebuilding the restaurant into a fine dining experience. This season also splintered off many of the characters into one-off episodes where they learned some new element of their craft that they would then bring back to the newly christened restaurant, The Bear. At the end of both seasons, the characters had accomplished a major, material goal that was helped along by accomplishing a smaller goal in each episode. Characters were fixing or changing a tactile experience that was textured-with and altered-by the trauma of previous experiences and relationships. They were working out a way to deal with their problems.

Seasons 3 and 4 have not followed this pattern. There are a few reasons for this, namely that it wouldn’t make sense for the characters to tear down their restaurant every season. Instead, the show is forced to look inward. So far this has looked like reckoning with what actually running a fine dining establishment looks like. There are nuts and bolts issues like menu changes, produce costs, paying back investors. These things were peppered into Season 1 but now they are the primary focus of the show’s tension. Major arguments now spring out of plate components and how patrons are treated. In Season 1, these arguments were treated as symptoms of the need for larger change within the world of the show. The communication between all the characters was so poor that the heart to heart that inevitably followed the screaming match felt like forward momentum for the characters. Yes they’d been assholes to each other for the previous 20-ish minutes, but at least they felt bad about it. But now in Season 4, with the restaurant as changed as can be, there is nowhere to look but inward, and to ask the question of why the characters (and possibly the show) refuse to change.

In an article for The Ringer, Brian Phillips outline this problem perfectly:

There are basically two ways a sequel can extend an original story. It can move horizontally, or it can move vertically

…

Sequels that expand horizontally do so by introducing new stuff. They invent new characters. They take us to new settings. They imagine new conflicts. They work by broadening the story’s horizons. Sequels that expand vertically do so by exploring the stuff that’s already there. They delve into backstories. They illuminate histories. They find blank spaces in the existing plot and concoct narratives to fill them in. They work by deepening the story’s roots. Of course, most good sequels expand in both directions at once: You will go to the Dagobah system is a horizontal expansion, and I am your father is a vertical one. But almost all sequels do most of their storytelling in one direction or the other, and it’s usually not hard to say which.

Where Seasons 3 & 4 of The Bear struggle is in their ability to say or do anything new with their characters. All of the things that made Seasons 1 & 2 such lightning rods are still present. You’ve still got the arguing and the heart to hearts. You’ve still got the incredible needle drops and gritty Chicago backdrop. But scenes and sequences- hell entire episodes- will go by without so much as a single definitive decision made by a character. The actors can chase a scene in all sorts of directions, pulling and adding subtext to every little line. But by and large, the action is rudderless. The directorial flare adds the texture of tension, often cross cutting between fights and arguments, but there’s no resolution. Nobody is growing or changing or getting better.

It’s a surprising development for a show that is so devoted to the idea of workplace as family. Working with people, even in limited capacities, often yields a specific kind of closeness. You may not go out to the bars with your coworkers or hang out after work. But you encountered the developments of each others lives on a regular basis. You learn to work together. It deepens your relationship in specific ways. Yet what The Bear is proposing is that actually, it doesn’t. After three seasons and dozens of cuzzin’-addled arguments, all that’s left to do is argue. Not about how to fix a problem. Not how to make things better. To argue over who blames themselves the most and which one gets to die on the cross.

External growth- the kind that powers, say, renovating a restaurant,- doesn’t force you to address internal growth. It’s easier to knock down a wall or install an oven than it is to change your management style. But that’s the point. The Bear has stopped acknowledging that internal change is possible. If Carmy were to make the effort to change beyond simply apologizing and blaming himself, that’s an interesting line of tension. Conversely, if Carmy refused to change and was punished for it by losing his staff, that’s equally interesting because then you want to know why he won’t change, what’s at the core of it, and what would it actually take to make him change.

Seasons 3 & 4 of The Bear struggle or outright fail to acknowledge when a different choice must be made altogether. The self-hatred that powers Carmy (and Richie in particular) can only sustain the story for so long. At some point, the audience begins to feel when the math doesn’t add up in a scene or a season and when a refusal to get to the point is occurring. The momentum stops dead because there is no clarity on goals or actions beyond “don’t fail”. There are no small goals to guide the audience into the larger ones.

The show is still adept at monologuing about the meaning of things, crosscutting between tensions, and creating texture from two actors circling each other in a scene. And from what I have heard about the latter half of season 4, there are some attempts to address the issues I’m discussing here. But by and large, The Bear has become pure texture instead of genuine tension. There’s no structure to carry us through and as a result, the story seems to go nowhere. Nothing to ground us or carry us into the next story beat or character choice. No reason for me to care when two characters launch into a screaming match. If the show wants to move the story forward, it needs to remember the math that got it there in the first place.