carmy

TELLURIDE, Colo.  — Jeremy Allen White asked all the questions any normal human being would ask when offered the chance to play Bruce Springsteen in “Springsteen: Deliver Me From Nowhere.” In theaters Oct. 24, it’s a movie that examines a slice of the rock legend’s career when he was battling depression and creating 1982’s incomparable exploration of alienation “Nebraska,” a record he didn’t know he was making when he recorded the songs on a primitive four-track tape machine in a rented New Jersey home. It turned out to be his favorite of all his albums.

Most of those questions could be boiled down to: Why me? White didn’t know how to play the guitar. He loves to sing but would never call himself a singer. And while he has a relationship with an audience, particularly those who have white-knuckled their way through his Emmy-winning work as Carmy, the talented and troubled chef on “The Bear,” he says it’s a far cry from the bond Springsteen has forged with his fan base for the past 50-plus years.

“The relationship a musician has with fans is so intimate,” White, 34, tells me the morning after the movie had its world premiere at the Telluride Film Festival. “You listen to him in the car, you go to see him live. He’s there in your ear and it’s just the two of you. You feel like you’re being spoken to. Bruce is so important to so many people. It was daunting. I didn’t want to disappoint.”

By the time we talked, though, White was well past any anxiety about disappointing, if only because he had the approval of the person who mattered the most: Springsteen himself.

“Jeremy tolerated me and I appreciated that,” Springsteen said at a festival Q&A, suggesting that his input on the movie was ongoing and significant — and also welcome. He noted that it was easy to sign off on director Scott Cooper’s vision for the movie, which, with its narrow focus on the deep dive of “Nebraska,” he called an “antibiopic.”

“And I’m old and I don’t give a f— what I do,” Springsteen added, laughing.

White and I are sitting in the sun outside his hotel, basking in the warmth the day after a steady rain. Wearing a battered Yankees cap, jeans, boots and a blue pullover, he’s sporting the casual uniform of the festival, if not the Boss himself. White asks if I mind if he lights an American Spirit. He reaches for his lighter. The premiere is over and his mood is light. We dive right in.

Jeremy Allen White in the movie “Springsteen: Deliver Me From Nowhere.”

(Macall Polay / 20th Century Studios)

Was there an immediate point of connection with Springsteen?
The more I talked with him, the more I learned. And at the point in his life we show in the movie, he was feeling so fraudulent. Not in his work, but as a human. He felt like he was being caught in a lie all the time. And I don’t want to speak for all actors, but I’ve certainly dealt with that kind of feeling.

It feels like there’s a line between your Springsteen and Carmy on “The Bear,” two men carrying generational trauma and emotional baggage they have no idea how to deal with. Do you see that?
For sure, you can draw that line. They’re cousins. And they’ve both got their art, something they feel confident about. What Bruce was feeling in his relationship with his father and the environment he grew up in, is he felt incredibly unsafe. And that made it difficult for him to trust people and form real connections. For a long time, the only connection he felt was in that three hours he spent on stage.

But then what do you do the rest of the time?
Absolutely. And I’m familiar with those feelings. But my home life as a child was more loving and supportive, so I had to do some creative work to find that tether to Bruce.

You mentioning Springsteen’s dad just popped a thought into my head. Is Carmy’s dad alive?
[Long exhale] We don’t know. That’s a decision that’s up to [showrunner] Chris [Storer].

It’s above your pay grade.
Well above.

You’re really good at playing men who have trouble articulating their feelings, which puts a lot of weight on your shoulders to convey an interior life through close-ups. Do you like that kind of acting?
I do. You have to have an understanding. The camera knows. If you’re just staring at a wall and you don’t have anything going on, the camera will know. The audience will, too.

You do also get to rock out and sing “Born to Run” and “Born in the U.S.A.” How did your vocal chords feel afterward?
I spent an afternoon singing “Born in the U.S.A.” and I got a migraine and I lost my voice. I saw Bruce afterward and he asked, “What’d you do today.” And I said [affecting a hoarse voice], “Uh, I recorded ‘Born in the U.S.A.’” And he smiles and says, “Sounds about right.”

Most of your singing is the “Nebraska” songs, these delicate acoustic songs about despairing characters who have lost hope. Putting across their stories in these songs feels like its own imposing challenge.
I was so focused on just sounding like Bruce and my coach, Eric [Vetro], asks, “What are you singing about? What’s the story? Where’s Bruce coming from? Is he singing from his perspective? Is about his childhood? Is he playing a character?” All these questions that, for an actor, should be right at the front of mind. Because I was so anxious about sounding like him, I found myself blocked by the real thing, which was: How can I just sing the song as honestly as possible?

What song was the breakthrough?
“Mansion on the Hill.” Bruce listened to it and said, “You do sound like me. But it’s you singing the song.” And that gave me permission, not just in recording the music, but making a film where I could tell his story but not be afraid to bring myself to it.

Did you have a favorite song?
Probably “My Father’s House.” It seemed like a warning for me. There’s regret in it. What I heard is a song about a young man not wanting to regret that he didn’t reach out for his father, who he had a love and connection with earlier. There was an immediacy to it, which you then see with Bruce and his father in the film.

Did it make you want to call your dad?
I called him right after recording that song in Nashville. Like many fathers and sons, we have a loving relationship, but we’ve also gone through periods where things have been difficult and it was hard to communicate. Making this film and singing this song has given me another perspective. It also coincides with getting older and having children of my own.

I’m glad you made the call. You can’t have those conversations after a certain point.
That’s what I mean about the warning of that song.

You told me yesterday that you and Springsteen had a debate about “Reason to Believe.” What was the source of the disagreement?
It’s the last song on the album and Bruce says people confuse it as being hopeful. He says that’s not correct. The song is about a woman whose husband has left her and she stands at the end of the driveway every day, waiting for him to come home. And I hear that, and I think, “Oh, that’s real love. That’s romance. Someone’s gonna drive down that road at some point.”

Either that or this poor woman is just going to be walking up and down her driveway the rest of her life.
And no one’s gonna be there. It depends how your ear is on a song.

But you choose to believe.
I choose to walk to the end of the driveway. Absolutely.

Would you call yourself an optimist?
No. [Laughs] Not really.

“Nebraska” came out in 1982 and was informed by the idea that there was a growing divide between the wealthy and the poor and that what we think of as the American Dream was becoming more elusive. Where do you think the album sits more than four decades later?
People are angry. That’s what seems to define our country right now. Anger. And it doesn’t seem to be going away. The songs on “Nebraska” are still going to be speaking to us four decades from now. They’re timeless.

Jeremy Allen White in the movie “Springsteen: Deliver Me From Nowhere.”

(Macall Polay / 20th Century Studios)

Did your early dance background help you with the physicality of the role, the way he carries himself on stage or even just walking around?
For sure. Finding the way he holds his gravity was important. I put little lifts in the boots and that made my posture change, my legs a little longer. Wearing the pants up to here [he points to a spot above his hips], that gets your gravity in your belly button, where I’m crouched over all the time.

There’s a lot of scenes in diners where he’s sitting with one arm over the back of the booth …
… like he’s on his way out almost all the time. One foot in, one foot out.

Musician friends turned you on to “Nebraska” in your early 20s. What music were you listening to then?
My folks are a little older so I grew up listening to a lot of music that Bruce listened to — Sam Cooke, Otis Redding, the Beatles, the Stones, Aretha Franklin.

Your parents had a strong record collection.
Still do. And I grew up in in Brooklyn in the ’90s, so I got really heavy into hip-hop in my teenage years. I discovered Nas and Jay-Z and Big L and Wu-Tang. Tribe. De La Soul. And then I was around for an exciting time in the New York scene. I was young so I couldn’t really experience it, but the Strokes were coming out and LCD Soundsystem. I felt lucky to be close that stuff as it was happening.

The way you’re talking about all this, it feels like music is a fundamental part of your life.
Absolutely. I love that it’s always with you. I’ve taken a couple of cross-country trips, and I love putting on Motown. I go through periods where I listen to the same 20 songs for a couple of weeks. But then I’ve got thousands of “liked” songs. And the nice part about a long drive is you can shuffle that and it’s like you’re traveling in time. I love getting to visit past versions of myself through music.

Springsteen takes an eventful cross-country trip in the film. What’s your most memorable one?
I did one by myself when I was about 24. I thought I was going to give myself about two weeks to go from New York to L.A. The first week was great. I was enjoying my solitude, listening to a lot of music. Then when I hit Utah, I got incredibly lonely.

Did the landscapes get to you?
Maybe. I had a certain amount of anonymity, which I enjoy on a road trip. You don’t know anybody in these towns and that allows you to be whoever you want to be, passing through. I remember getting to Utah and just being desperate to see somebody who knew who I was. And I got a flat in St. George, Utah. It was a disaster. My phone had died. I didn’t have a spare. I was out on the side of the road trying to borrow somebody’s phone. I took that as a sign. After I got it repaired, I raced to have dinner with a friend, because I felt this this crazy loneliness.

Springsteen says everyone has their “genesis moment,” an experience that charts your path. His was watching Elvis Presley perform on “The Ed Sullivan Show” in 1956. What’s your genesis moment?
I had been dancing on stage but I didn’t act until I was 14 when I got up in front of a group in middle school. I had this great teacher, John McEneny, and he was having us do this improvisational exercise — two characters, one speaking, one quiet. And my friend, Yael, was playing a mother and I was playing her child who didn’t know how to speak yet. So I wasn’t speaking, like so much of my work [Laughs].

It’s Carmy’s genesis moment too.
Yes. And I remember feeling a presence. I had a hard time focusing as a child, a hard time being present. Still do. But I remember even in silence feeling so at ease and present. And of course I remember the eyes. And even without me doing anything or speaking, I felt attention, people waiting to see what I would do next. And I went, “Whoa.” I felt at peace. I felt present and people were interested. And I thought, “Let me follow this a little bit and see where we can go.”

There’s a scene in the movie, taken from real life, where Springsteen is flipping through the channels one night and stumbles upon Terrence Malick’s “Badlands,” a movie that ultimately influences “Nebraska.” With streaming, we don’t really have those serendipitous discoveries any more. Have you ever had a moment like that?
I can’t think of one. But “Badlands” was a favorite of my parents and they showed it to me when I was 13 or 14. Martin Sheen was cool as hell in that role, and I was so impressed with his commitment to that character. And Sissy Spacek conveys so much with so few words.

And like “Nebraska,” “Badlands” was difficult to make. There was a lot of pushback against Malick and what he was trying to do.
There was a lot of confusion going on. They weren’t on the same page. Like with Bruce, it took a lot of diligence on Terrence Malick’s part to realize his vision. It’s so beautiful when you hear about the process of making a film is so difficult, and then something so beautiful and perfect comes out.

Where do you like to see movies in L.A.?
I love the New Beverly. I saw “2001: A Space Odyssey” at the Egyptian not long ago. The Aero, if I’m on the Westside. I miss the Cinerama Dome and the Arclight. New movies, probably the Sunset 5. My favorite thing is go to a movie on a Tuesday at like one in the afternoon. You’re there by yourself. I like seeing movies by myself. Some people get out of a movie and like to start talking about it. I like getting out of a movie and being quiet for awhile.

Did you see “Weapons”? That was my favorite movie theater experience this summer.
I loved “Weapons.” And obviously, it’s a great horror film and funny at times and that ending is just crazy. But also I found myself very emotionally affected. To me the horror of the movie was about, from the child’s perspective, looking at all these adults who were totally incapable, whether it was due to addiction or narcissism.

Bringing this full circle, I’m watching this movie about kids feeling unsafe and I thought of the times in Bruce’s upbringing where he felt a similar way and how that made it so difficult to grow up and be trusting. That he ultimately got to that place is so beautiful. I hope people come away from watching this movie feeling that and, if they’re in a place that’s not so good, maybe thinking that connection can still be possible.

In the beginning there was chaos.

Three years ago, FX’s “The Bear” splattered across our screens and made it impossible to look away. The yelling; the cursing; the gravy-slopping, bowl-clattering, grease-slick, jerry-rigged anxious sweaty mess of the Chicago sandwich shop the Beef and the wildly dysfunctional group of people who worked there, including elite chef Carmy Berzatto (Jeremy Allen White), who inherited the Beef from his dead-by-suicide beloved brother Mikey (Jon Bernthal), wowed critics and raised the culture’s collective cortisol count to eye-twitching levels.

Critics used terms like “stress bomb” and “adrenaline shot”; current and former restaurant workers described symptoms not unlike those of PTSD, and viewers ate it all up with a spoon.

Season 2, in which Carmy follows through on his plan to turn the Beef into a fine-dining establishment, only increased the anxiety level. With real money on the table (courtesy of Carmy’s uncle Jimmy, played by Oliver Platt), along with the hopes, dreams and professional futures of the staff, including Sydney (Ayo Edebiri), Marcus (Lionel Boyce), Tina (Liza Colón-Zayas), Sugar (Abby Elliott) and, of course, Cousin Richie (Ebon Moss-Bachrach), stakes were cranked to do-or-die.

When the episode “Fishes,” a stomach-clenching holiday buffet of trauma, revealed the twisted roots of a family forged by alcoholism — Carmy’s mother Donna (Jamie Lee Curtis) — and abandonment — Carmy’s father — viewers could not get enough.

This being television, we knew that all the wild dysfunction would inevitably coalesce into triumph — you cannot achieve greatness without driving yourself and everyone else crazy first, right? When, at the end of Season 2, the Bear somehow managed to have a successful opening night, despite Carmy locking himself in a refrigerator and having a full-on existential crisis, our deep attachment to “yes chef” pandemonium appeared vindicated. Fistfuls of Emmys and dopamine cocktails all around.

Except being able to open is a rather low bar for success, even in the restaurant business. Carmy is, for all his talent, an utter mess, and creator Christopher Storer is not, as it turns out, interested in celebrating the time-honored, and frankly toxic, notion that madness is a necessary part of genius — to the apparent dismay of many viewers.

When, in Season 3, Storer and his writers opted to slow things down a bit, to pull each character aside and unsnarl the welter of emotions that fueled the Bear’s kitchen, some viewers were disappointed. Which, having become dependent on the show’s stress-bomb energy, they expressed with outrage. “The Bear” had lost its edge, was getting dull, boring, repetitive and reliant on stunt-casting; it should have ended with Season 2 or, better yet, become a movie.

Thus far, the reaction to Season 4 has run the gamut — where some condemn what they consider continuing stagnation, others cheer a return to form. Which is kind of hilarious as this opens with the staff of the Bear reeling from an equally mixed review of the restaurant from the Chicago Tribune. (Shout out to the notion that a newspaper review still has make-or-break influence, though the Bear’s lack of a social media awareness has long been worrisome).

Season 4 of “The Bear” starts with the restaurant’s crew reaction to the Chicago Tribune review and how it will affect the restaurant. “They didn’t like the chaos,” Sydney says.

(FX)

Turns out that Carmy’s obsessive determination to change the menu daily, and keep his staff on perpetual tenterhooks, was perceived as disruptive, but not in a good way.

“They didn’t like the vibe,” he tells Syd in a morning-after debrief. “They didn’t like the chaos,” she replies. “You think I like chaos?” he asks. “I think you think you need it to be talented,” she says, adding, “You would be just as good, you would be great … without this need for, like, mess.”

Coming early in Episode 1, Syd’s message is a bit on the nose, but addiction does not respond to subtlety, and “The Bear” is, as I have written before, all about the perils and long-range damage of addiction. That includes Donna’s to alcohol, Mikey’s to painkillers, Carmy’s to a self-flagellating notion of perfection and, perhaps, the modern TV audience’s to cortisol.

As Season 4 plays out, with its emphasis on introspection and real connection, viewers might consider why “addictive” has become the highest form of compliment in television.

It’s such a sneaky bastard, addiction, happy to hijack your brain chemistry in any way it can. Our collective attention span isn’t what it used to be and the adrenaline rush unleashed by crisis, real or observed, can create a desire to keep replicating it. Even on broadcast and cable television, most dysfunctional family series take a one-step-forward-two-steps-back approach to their characters’ emotional growth. The mess is what viewers come for, after all.

Particularly in comedy, we want to see our characters get into jams for the pleasure of watching them wildly flail about trying to get out of them. Early seasons of “The Bear” took that desire to a whole new level.

But having amped up the craziness and the stakes, Storer now appears to be more interested in exploring why so many people believe that an ever-roiling crucible is necessary to achieve greatness. And he is willing to dismantle some of the very things that made his show a big hit to do it.

Frankly, that’s as edgy as it gets, especially in streaming, which increasingly uses episodic cliffhangers to speed up a series’ completion rate — nothing fuels a binge watch like a jacked up heart rate.

Like Carmy, Storer doesn’t appear content with resting on his laurels; he’s willing to take counterintuitive risks. As an attempt to actually show both the necessity and difficulty of recovery, in a micro- and meta- sense, “The Bear” is an experiment that defies comparison.

At the beginning of this season, Uncle Jimmy puts a literal clock on how long the Bear has before, short of a miracle, he will have to pull the plug. Carmy, still addicted to drama, claims they will still get a Michelin star, despite evidence to the contrary, which will solve everything. (Spoiler: A gun introduced in the first act must go off in the third is one of many tropes “The Bear” upends.)

The rest of the staff, mercifully, takes a more pragmatic approach. Richie, having become the unexpected sensei of the Bear (and the show), does the most sensible thing — he asks for help from the crackerjack staff of chef Terry’s (Olivia Colman) now defunct Ever. Watching chef Jessica (Sarah Ramos) whip the nightly schedule into shape only underlines the absurdity, and damage, of the auteur theory of anything — greatness is never a solitary achievement.

As Carmy loosens his grip, other outsiders pitch in — Luca (Will Poulter) shows up from Copenhagen to help Marcus and also winds up aiding Tina; Ebraheim (Edwin Lee Gibson) drafts an actual mentor (played by Rob Reiner) to help him figure out how he can grow the Beef sandwich window and Sweeps (Corey Hendrix) finds his own in another sommelier (played by retired master Alpana Singh).

Donna (Jaime Lee Curtis) apologizes to Carmy (Jeremy Allen White) for her actions and the harm she caused.

(FX)

Carmy, thank God, not only returns to Al Anon, but he finally visits his mother, which allows a now-sober Donna (in another potentially Emmy-winning performance by Curtis) to admit the harm she has done and try to make amends.

It is, inarguably, a very different show than the one that debuted three years ago, with far fewer cacophonous kitchen scenes, and many more Chicago-appreciating exteriors. When the long-awaited wedding of Richie’s ex, Tiffany (Gillian Jacobs), reunites many of the characters from the famous “Fishes” episode, fears about a gathering of Berzattos and Faks prove unfounded. Despite a high-pitched and hilarious spat between Sugar and her ex-bestie Francie Fak (Brie Larson), the event is, instead, a celebration of love and reconciliation and includes what passes for a group therapy session under the table where Richie’s daughter Eva (Annabelle Toomey) has hidden herself. (This scene, which involved all the main characters, was more than a little undermined by said table’s TARDIS-like ability to be “bigger on the inside” and the fact that it held the wedding cake, which did not fall as they all exited, is proof that “The Bear” is not a comedy.)

Not even the digital countdown could generate the sizzling, clanking, sniping roar of chronic, organic anxiety that fueled the first two seasons. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss it — I love my adrenaline rush as much as the next person.

But that’s the whole point. Real change doesn’t occur with the speed or the electricity of a lightning bolt; as many addicts discover, it’s about progress, not perfection. Recovery takes time and often feels weird — if you want to have a different sort of life, you need to do things differently.

That’s tough on a hit TV show, as the reactions to Season 3 proved (we’ll see how it fares when Emmy nominations are announced in a few weeks). Few series have made as large a shift in tone and tempo as “The Bear,” but its intentions are clear. To illuminate the necessity, and difficulty, of breaking an addiction to anything, including chaos, you can’t rely on talk; for your life to be different, you have to do things differently.

FX on Hulu has asked that a spoiler alert head any detailed reviews of the new, fourth season of “The Bear.” And while this review is not really detailed, everyone has their own idea of what constitutes a spoiler. So, read on, if you dare.

Most television series, and not just the best ones, are organic. You can plan in a vague way, but you learn as you go along — what the actors can do, what characters are going to demand more screen time, what unexpected opportunities present themselves, what the series is telling you about itself. This can make a show feel inconsistent across time, but often better in the end, as much as it may irritate viewers who liked how things were back at the beginning.

Early in the fourth season of “The Bear,” premiering Wednesday on FX on Hulu, the staff of the series’ eponymous restaurant finally sees the Chicago Tribune review they were anticipating throughout much of Season 3, and when it comes, it contains words like “confusing,” “show-offy” and “dissonant.” (It’s beautiful to see the review represented in a physical newspaper.) The show’s third season was accused by some fans and critics of similar things, and whether or not creator and showrunner Christopher Storer is drawing a comparison here, it’s true that “The Bear” doesn’t behave like most series — the recent shows it most resembles are “Atlanta” and “Reservation Dogs,” both from FX, and going back a little, HBO’s “Treme,” which, like “The Bear,” are less invested in plot than in character, place and feeling.

For all the series’ specific detail and naturalistic production, the eponymous Bear is a fairy-tale restaurant, staffed by people who not long before were hustling to get beef sandwiches out the door but, encouraged by Jeremy Allen White’s brilliant chef Carmen, have revealed individual superpowers in relatively short time. (Carmy asks Marcus, a genius of dessert played by Lionel Boyce, how he achieved a certain effect in a new sweet; “Legerdemain,” Marcus replies.) If you want to see real restaurants in operation, there are plenty of options, from Netflix’s “Chef’s Table,” to Frederick Wiseman’s “Menus-Plaisirs — Les Troisgros,” a four-hour film about a Michelin three-star restaurant in central France. (It streams from PBS.org; you have until March 2027 to catch it there, and should.) But this invented place, which is real enough for its purposes, is primarily a stage for human striving, failure and success — and love. Come for the food, stay for the people.

After the first two seasons, which involved transforming the Beef, the sandwich shop Carmy inherited from his late brother Mikey, and creating the Bear, the third looked around and over its shoulder, flashing back and stretching out and developing themes that are taken up again in Season 4, which begins so hot on the heels of three they might as well be one. (They were filmed back-to-back.) The chaos and expense created by Carmy’s “nonnegotiable” decision to change the menu every night; the prospect of the Tribune review; and a participation agreement for sous-chef-turned-creative partner Sydney (Ayo Edebiri) are still working their way through the story. It begins more prosaically, certainly when compared with the impressionistic montage that occupied the whole of last season’s opening episode. And, apart from an opening flashback in which Carmy tells Mikey (Jon Bernthal) of his vision for a restaurant (“We could make it calm, we could make it delicious, we could play good music, people would want to come in there and celebrate … we could make people happy”), it stays in the present, facing forward.

Once again, we get a ticking clock to create pressure; installed by the “uncle” they call Computer (Brian Koppelman), it’s timed not as before to the opening of the restaurant but to the point at which backer Uncle Jimmy (Oliver Platt) will pull out and the Bear will “cease operations.” (It’s set to 1,440 hours, or 60 days.) But deadlines come and go on this show, and though we’re treated to repeated shots of the countdown clock, it doesn’t create much actual tension. There is always something more immediately concerning, in the kitchen or out in the world.

Ticking clocks remain a motif in Season 4 of “The Bear.” Ayo Edebiri, left, with Liza Colón-Zayas in a scene from this season.

(FX)

For all his messing with the menu in search of a Michelin star, Carmy is stuck in a rut — cue clip from “Groundhog Day” — and has also become maddeningly inarticulate, almost beyond speech; much of what White does this year is listen and react, doing subtle work with his face and fingers, interjecting an occasional “Yeah,” while family or colleagues unburden themselves or take him to task. “Is this performative?” Richie asks a moping Carmy. “You waiting for me to ask if you’re OK?”

Some of his self-flagellation feels unearned — which I suppose is often the case with self-flagellation. (“You would be just as good … without this need for, like, mess,” says Syd.) Carmy can be a handful, but he’s led his team into this land of milk and honey, and if the Bear is dysfunctional, it nevertheless manages to put food on the table, create delight and pay its people. Still, this is a season of apologies — even Uncle Jimmy is saying he’s sorry, through a closed door, to his teenage son — and reconciliations. (You didn’t suppose you’d seen the last of Claire, Carmy’s on-again, off-again romantic interest, played by Molly Gordon?)

Some developments can seem abrupt, possibly because so many of these characters are bad at communicating or lie about how they’re feeling, saying that everything is OK when everything is not OK. But in the long view, the view that extends even beyond the end of the series, whether it comes sooner or later, everything will be OK. Whatever Emmy nitpickers might have to say about its category, “The Bear” is most definitely a comedy; there’ll be obstacles, but everyone’s on a road to happiness. A double-wide episode, set at the wedding of Richie’s ex-wife, Tiffany (Gillian Jacobs), mirrors the calamitous “Fishes” Christmas-dinner episode from Season 2, with most of that extended cast present again. But here, there is dancing.

Richie, running the front of the house, continues on his journey of self-improvement, crafting inspirational addresses to the staff, meditating on a photo of a Japanese Zen garden and dealing in an adult way with his soon-to-be-remarried ex-wife and daughter; the Bear has become his lifeline. Gary (Corey Hendrix, getting some deserved screen time) is being educated as a sommelier; Tina (Liza Colón-Zayas) is working to put pasta on the plate in under three minutes; Ebraheim (Edwin Lee Gibson) is killing it at the sandwich window and looking to “create opportunity” with a new delivery app, a robot called Chuckie and a business mentor (Rob Reiner). Come for the food, stay for the people.

Above all, this is Syd’s year, which is, of course, also to say Edebiri’s. She’s got decisions to make and has been given long, often intense, two-person scenes, not only with Carmy but with Jimmy and Claire and an 11-year-old girl she suddenly finds herself babysitting, and with whom she spends most of an episode; Syd describes her dilemma in terms an 11-year-old might understand and receives the blunt advice an 11-year-old might give.

Carmy, for his part, thinks he knows how to fix things, which he will finally get around to sharing. Is it a good idea? Will it work? Will we ever know, and do we need to know? Is this the final season? (No one has said.) It closes on what is not quite an end — that not everything ties up feels very on brand for the series, and like life, which doesn’t run on schedule — and a sort of beginning. (I would just point out that R.E.M.’s “Strange Currencies,” or as I have called it, “Love Theme From ‘The Bear,’” playing very quietly in a scene behind Richie and highly evolved Chef Jessica [Sarah Ramos] may be a gentle nod to their unseen future.)

It can be corny, it can be obvious. It indulges in gestures as grand and unlikely as creating snow for a guest, and as small as a sandwich being cut to make it a little more friendly, a little more fancy. Both are moving.

Good restaurants serve a reliable version of familiar food, food anyone can like. Great ones do something peculiar that won’t be to everyone’s taste, won’t even make sense, but might inspire love. So it is with television shows.