Make characters witty again

There are two types of comedy character in the world.

It’s a delight to have The Bear back on our screens and, in particular, to have Carmy’s beleagued maître d', Richie. Richie became a fan favourite in the Season 2 episode “Forks,” which sees him staging at a Michelin 3-star restaurant based on real-life Chicago establishment Ever and on the notion, laid out by Will Guidara in his book Unreasonable Hospitality, that extraordinary guest experiences require extraordinary acts of service.

After a long week of polishing silverware, Richie is finally let loose on the floor after a fellow server overhears a guest bemoaning the fact that she will leave Chicago without trying deep-dish pizza. His sprint through the streets for a takeaway pie, which the restaurant’s chefs plate with a drop of basil gel and a tiny micro-sprig of the herb itself, is the moment he falls in love with service – and we with him.

There is another charming side to Richie in this episode and indeed in the show as a whole. Richie is funny. I don’t mean merely that he makes us laugh – although he does – but that he, as a character, within the universe of The Bear, is a funny man. In an early episode, he calls a mob of nerdish patrons “Incel, QAnon, 4chan, Snyder Cut motherfuckers.” When he asks what kind of asshole puts ketchup on a hot dog, and Carmy replies, “a child,” Richie counters: “Child asshole.” Asked if he’s come from a funeral after showing up to work in a suit, he replies, “Yeah, a funeral for all my enemies.” He serves the souped-up deep dish with a suave mangia, baby.

It is my belief that there are two types of sitcom characters in the world: those we laugh with, and those we laugh at. I can best explain by way of Friends, a program where the cast starts as the former and ends as the latter. In early seasons, they are funny people: they crack jokes. They tease each other. When Joey says the weirdest place he’s ever done it is the second floor of the New York Public Library, Monica says, ‘Oh my god.’ A beat. ‘What were you doing in a library?’

It is almost impossible to imagine late-season Monica making this joke. By then, she’s uptight and controlling. Rachel is ditzy. Joey doesn’t know left from right. Chandler is allowed to make jokes, still, but a maker of jokes increasingly becomes all he is. When we laugh at later seasons of Friends, we’re laughing at how poorly these caricatures handle the business of life, how ineptly they interact with each other. The program ramps up the second-hand embarrassment, but dials down the wordplay.

All comedies exist along this spectrum. Frasier? Funny characters. Mr Bean? Far down the ‘laughing at’ end. Derry Girls is mostly a laughing-at program, although Sister Michael and, to some extent, the hyper-garrulous Michelle are exceptions. We laugh with Edmund Blackadder, but at everyone around him. Seinfeld, too, is a mix: you don’t make such irredeemable characters without expecting your audience to feel at least a little superior – famously, the writers’ guiding principle was ‘no hugging, no learning’ – but the main cast are still witty. Fleabag, similarly, has a foot in both camps, although Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s frequent looks to camera give it an additional archness. Sure, we’re laughing at them, but she knows it.

When I ask the comedian and writer Mollie Goodfellow about this, she points out that not only have sitcoms become increasingly self-aware, but that they’re increasingly blended with drama. In other words, they’ve become heavier on the ‘sit’ and lighter on the ‘com.’ To this, I’d add that the popularity of mockumentary comedies such as Parks and Recreation and, of course, The Office has made us more accustomed to being observers of the action.

The Bear, you might reasonably point out, isn’t a sitcom. There’s been debate over whether it’s a comedy. In 2024, after it garnered an historic 23 nominations in the Emmys ‘Comedy Series,’ category, one of the writers of mockumentary sitcom Abbott Elemtnary tweeted, “Proud of Abbott Elementary for all its Emmy nominations this year, especially Outstanding Comedy series as we are definitely a program where the majority of the running time of at least 6 episodes are primarily comedic, as defined by the TV Academy.” Smiley face emoji.

This matter of categorisation is sticky. In the Guardian, the cultural critic Stuart Heritage urged the Emmys organisers to introduce a 30-minute drama category for series such as The Bear, allowing pure comedy shows ‘a hope in hell’ of winning. Heritage contrasts The Bear’s comedy wins with Succession, which has 60-minute episodes and, despite a strong humorous streak, has always been classified as a drama.

Far be it from me to presume I know better than either the critics or the Emmy organisers on this point. But I do take issue with the contention made by some that The Bear’s dark subject matter – or, perhaps more fairly speaking, its dark tone – disqualifies it from being a comedy. Black humour is, of course, its own enduring tradition, and even in The Bear’s darkest moments – including the brutal family psychodrama of Christmas bubble episode “Fishes” – there is plenty to laugh at.

When anxious, abusive mother Donna is overheard screaming profanity in the kitchen and someone asks, “what was that?,” Uncle Lee replies, “just a crazy person yelling fuck.” Upstairs, in a moment of calm, Richie’s pregnant partner lies nauseous on Donna’s bed. “The upside of barf,” he tells her, is that “you get a little bit of peace and quiet.” “The upside of barf,” she repeats. Later, as chaos descends around the dining table, Richie implores Carmy’s brother Mikey – alive here in flashback – to calm down. “Cousin, you’re scaring the normals.” These are people who laugh, who look sideways at the exceptional yet routine drama of family life, who make digs, who reference soft spots and pop culture and their own failings. There isn’t much to laugh at in their tragic situation, but they create plenty of chances to laugh with them. Fuck you. Yes, chef, fuck me.