The shouts of the kitchen, the blazing fire on the saucepan that mimics the acid that each mouth spews, hidden behind endless curse words thrown at each other. Until each chef stands on the precipice of an apocalyptic failure of no return. And then?
And then there is silence.
Christopher Storer's The Bear follows star chef Carmy as he desperately tries to revive his family sandwich outlet after his brother suddenly, and tragically, passes away– giving Carmy ownership of the restaurant.
The impact of The Bear lies in the contrast of sound. After a lengthy screaming session or chaotic service that nearly drives the viewer into a frenzy there is a pause: a moment of quiet that embodies the saying that “silence is deafening”.
We are latched onto the fight, victim to an onslaught of noise, constricted in that same kitchen, waiting for the final blow, that, after nearly half an episode hasn't come. As the volume rises to infernal highs, silence bursts through the door. It is at this moment that we realize we have been holding our breath, carefully waiting, not once realising the monstrous roller-coaster we were on until our feet touch the ground and finally, finally the screaming stops.
Another contrast is that of light– the blinding white in Carmy’s flashbacks, the yellow and gray of the present shift back and forth from sterility to warmth, from competence to incompetence, making us unsure that the nightmare of Carmy's present is the real one.
This masterful use of sound and light and the sudden absences of it are found throughout the show, controlling the tempo of each episode, making them go by quicker. It makes the show immersive and allows the characters to reveal something they could not have without the noise, from Carmy's non-negotiables to Richie's insecurities, the chaos truly does bring clarity, but it takes that second of silence afterwords for it to mull, and for what has been brewing to settle.
*image credits: The Bear (2022-)
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