“The Bear”: What’s a Sitcom Anyway?

Having just binge-watched the fifth and final season of The Bear, I have some strong thoughts on how TV has changed over time. From 1972 to 1983 I was devoted to M*A*S*H, a sort-of sitcom set during the Korean War. Lasting eleven years, the show—about a military surgical unit a stone’s throw from the front lines—focused on the hijinks of young surgeons, nurses, and other American military personnel far from home. So this series (with Alan Alda as “Hawkeye” Pierce, its central figure) blended outrageous comedy with a deep awareness of the tragedies of war and the challenges faced by healers in times of crisis.

 My friend Elias Davis, who co-wrote the famous final episode of M*A*S*H , implies that the show’s outcome was by no means fully planned from the start. But it’s clear that The Bear—officially labeled a comedy, though much of the family backstory is dead serious—was building throughout most of its five-year run toward a very specific conclusion. In the past, American TV didn’t work that way. In long-running comic shows there would be changes over the years as key actors came and went. See, for instance, how the M*A*S*H dynamic evolved when the obtuse Major Frank Burns, as played by Larry Linville, was replaced by the know-it-all snob Charles Emerson Winchester III (David Ogden-Stiers) as Hawkeye’s tent mate.

 Today, of  course, TV series tend to have much shorter seasons: each of the past five years has seen the arrival of only eight episodes of The Bear. (Compare M*A*S*H , which typically had more than 20.) The Bear’s  tight timetable makes it much easier for the writing team to control the show’s narrative, and to plan out in advance where it is going, with some interesting detours along the way. Curiously, although there’s a good-sized cast portraying those who work in and around the Chicago restaurant known as The Bear, not much always happens from episode to episode. Some focus almost entirely on a single character, and it’s not necessarily star Carmy (Jeremy Allen White), a talented chef who agonizes over his decision to convert his dead brother’s sandwich shop into a fine-dining establishment. Each of the central characters has a complicated backstory, and the show sometimes pulls away from the restaurant setting to explore cousin Richie working on his people skills, line cook Tina discovering her professional abilities, pastry chef Marcus coping with the loss of his mother, or Somali kitchen helper Ebraheim shyly struggling to get the restaurant on a stronger financial footing. (His mentor is played by the late Rob Reiner, and there’s a subtle, touching tribute to Reiner in Ebraheim’s last-episode final line, “As you wish.” Jamie Lee Curtis as Carmy’s addled, sometimes alcoholic, mother does not enter the restaurant until the show’s very last episode, but she’s impossible to forget.  Because we come to know these people so well, we care about what they ultimately accomplish.

 One of my favorite things about The Bear is how it rewards viewers paying close attention. Early in season 4 there’s an episode in which maître d’ Richie, aiming to heighten the celebration of  a family whose daughter has just been declared cancer-free, mesmerizes them all by creating a magical summer snowfall. In passing, some attention is paid to the solo diner at the next table who sees and delights in the family’s joy. Who is this man? We don’t find out until the very last show of season 5, when his appreciation for his dining experience bears important fruit. It’s yet another tasty surprise for a very special show. 

 

David Geffen, Elias Davis, and the Rise of the House of Usher

This week the front page of the Los Angeles Times was splashed with a rare happy story. Music industry mogul David Geffen had just pledged $150 million for the renovation of the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. It was hardly Geffen’s first grand philanthropic gesture: he has enriched the coffers of theatres, museums, and concert halls on both coasts. And UCLA’s prestigious School of Medicine was renamed in his honor following a $400 million donation.

So David Geffen’s an impressive guy. But some forty years ago, he was just a young drudge working a lowly job at CBS. One fine day, kibitzing with his supervisor, he mentioned his plan to find a hot literary property, buy the rights, and make a film. That supervisor, Elias Davis, was hardly impressed with his youthful optimism. He pointed out that the kid was merely an (expletive deleted) usher.

How times have changed! Today Geffen is one of the world’s wealthiest men. But that supervisor—officially the assistant usher supervisor—has not done so badly himself. Elias Davis, who was interested in cinematography but somehow became a writer of sitcoms and film comedies, now owns an Emmy and a house in Malibu. For his work on such landmark TV as M*AS*H, Frasier, and The Carol Burnett Show, he and co-writer David Pollock have racked up a slew of nifty award nominations.

I’m not sure why, but writers of stage and screen comedies often come in pairs. One advantage of writing as a team is the opportunity to bounce ideas off a like-minded partner. Sometimes these duos get along famously; sometimes not. Elias cited for me a passage in Moss Hart’s Broadway memoir, Act One, in which Hart reminisced about his collaborations with George S. Kaufman. The two spun such farces as You Can’t Take It With You into comic gold.. But at every work session, Kaufman obsessively picked lint from carpets and furniture before he could settle down to make theatrical magic. Working “head to head,” Elias and Pollock apparently struggled with no such quirks. Of course there was the time that Pollock came into the office one morning with a cold opening that struck an awed Elias as “just perfect.” He never shared with his partner his secret anxiety that perhaps he himself was not really needed.

Today those who aspire to break into TV comedy talk knowledgeably about show runners and writers’ rooms. Elias remembers a much different era, when a show’s producer would hire one staff writer, and freelancers would carry much of the load. Gradually, though, writing staffs became enlarged. Elias counts among his favorite memories his years on the staff of M*AS*H, where he felt among both cast and staff a sense of camaraderie and pride he’s never experienced on any other show. Another special opportunity involved being chosen by the great Paddy Chayefsky to collaborate on a comic pilot called Your Place or Mine. The show flopped, but he cherished the opportunity to learn from a master.

Today Elias devotes himself to making music in various ensembles (he’s graduated from trombone to recorder). But he can imagine himself writing for a contemporary satirical comedy like Veep. He’s amused to recall that in the early days of Showtime, he and David Pollock were hired to wring a sitcom from a quirky Bruce Jay Friedman play in which God is a Puerto Rican steambath attendant. Their resulting Steambath, though, proved too boldly satiric for Showtime, which aspired in those days to be just like the networks. Times certainly have changed. Says, Elias, with a shrug, “It might work now.”