Corn on the Tube

The new season of The Bear is cringe-inducingly sincere—but it works.

- KATHRYN VANARENDONK

FOUR SEASONS IN, The Bear has established itself in two primary modes: artsy and corny. Season one leaned artsy with a late-season swerve toward corn; season two served corn pudding in artful ways. The third season swung back to smugly artsy with overburdened montages, constipated plotting, preening cameos by real-world chefs, and fussy shots of a fussy man making fussy food. In season four, the pendulum crashes so far into the cornfields that the cast at times seems moments away from breaking into a number from the musical Shucked.

This is a good thing. The Bear operates best when it is painfully sincere and strips away its own gimmickry to focus on making a good meal. The show still lacks the balance its first two seasons were able to find, and by now, some of its moves have lost their novelty. But compared to its predecessor, this season is the better, more appealing, and more confident version of The Bear.

Season four picks up roughly where three leaves off with the crew members of Carmen Berzatto's (Jeremy Allen White) fine-dining establishment reeling after the release of the Chicago Tribune's long-awaited, mixed review of the Bear. Once again, they're the underdogs, not just in terms of reputation but also financially. Uncle Cicero's (Oliver Platt) money won't last forever. Their suppliers can extend only so much grace. Their families cause them angst, their pasts are full of unresolved emotional turmoil, and the only way to turn things around is by spending even more on payroll. Where season three was a promising new beginning that takes a nosedive into self-sabotage, season four has the pleasure and the challenge of pulling everyone out of the hole.