triumphant joy

news from the studio of hope amico 1.10.24

Jan 11, 2024

While the theme of this essay is joy, it is coming wrapped in a fan letter to the television show The Bear. Haven’t seen it? Thats ok, skip on to the news because registration for “Is This Art” is closing 1/15 and I’m about to spill spoilers. Then go watch both seasons of The Bear and come back. I’ll wait.

Once in a while I like to indulge in a little snooping around the internet. Mostly, I read old posts from people I used to know. A few months ago, a musician friend took a break from posting about their new album to declare that they really wanted to talk about the FX show The Bear, with anyone willing. They aren’t really the kind of person to request a public and enthusiastic discussion about television but neither am I. And yet here we are.

I recently rewatched both seasons and they are living in my chest, like a poem I want to share. I know, it’s television. It isn’t poetry. I thought about the certain scenes for weeks. I wanted to rewatch them but their potency is in the build up throughout the seasons and I am not ready to watch it all over again. Not yet.

If you haven’t seen it and ignored my advice to watch it before reading this, let me set the premise. On the surface, it is a slick and beautifully filmed show about the restaurant industry. It is also about families, what we owe each other, our self-determined limitations and what we fear. Jeremey Allen White is the not-unpleasing-to-look-at central character, Carmy. His brother is dead and he has inherited his chaotic Chicago sandwich shop. It is a neighborhood staple littered with chaos. The show thrives on stressful situations, punctuating with volume and intensity. It is loud. All emotions are communicated through shouting. The dramatic volume is constantly set to eleven. So much yelling. So many stubborn miscommunications. So bleak and damaged. I don’t know why I continued watching, why I sunk into its emotionally uncomfortable and audibly damaging setting. But patience is rewarded. Soft spots sneak in. Ritchie on the phone with his kid. A flashback to the brother. A goofy pal breaks some of the tension. The pace was stressful but the writing was good.

The dramatic volume is constantly set to eleven. So much yelling. So many stubborn miscommunications. So bleak and damaged. I don’t know why I continued watching…

Season one ends with relief. An opportunity, though messy, of course; a tomato covered miracle. Season two is the story of each character pushing the limits of their own expectations. I think daily about one of these characters and their transformation. About Tina, defiant and stubborn in season one, attends culinary school and thrives. Despite her confidence in the classroom, she is unsure how she fits in socially. She is invited out one night with her classmates and stuns the bar into silence with a rendition of “Before the Next Teardrop Falls.”

The volume has been turned down in season two, only for moments of focus. Marcus the baker spends a quiet episode in Copenhagen, dissecting flavors and perfecting techniques. The chaos roars back in the last few episodes. The loudest, an hour long flashback at Christmas, is an unpredictable fireworks show of guest stars, quips, and emotional attacks. Jamie Lee Curtis is the as the unstable, wildly needy yet unwilling to be soothed, independent mother whose dramatics feed an environment of chaos. The family kitchen is an echo of the worst days at the sandwich shop.

Whatever the volume, it is never a show gone soft. Set in Chicago, the characters show love through actions and loyalty, however surprising. Carmy and sous chef Syd share a heart to heart, but preface each personal question with “you can tell me to fuck off.” They are saying, can we be vulnerable and can we respect each other? It is the perfect balance of tenderness and toughness, of vulnerability and a need to protect.

That is what I am wishing for you in the new year—roll the windows down and let the good air in.

The moment that spins in my head in this bleak January is the moment of change for Ritchie. He is a difficult characters to like: abrasive, unwilling to change. He just lost his best friend. His daughter lives with his ex, and he mourns by refusing to adapt, by demanding consistency even when it is stagnant or stifling. Carmy sends him to learn at the best restaurant in the world, but Ritchie assumes it is a punishment for his stubbornness, to shame him into submission. He is sloppy, impatient. He maintains the low standards he assumes is expected of him. His lax and unimpressed attitude earns him a stern reprimand that alters his perception. He begins to see the opportunity for what it is— a chance to improve his own skills. He hears that Carmy told others that he is good with people. The small praise, the positive attention boosts his confidence and he flourishes. I carry this advice from a former teacher: find that thing that makes your work yours. Ritchie realizes he the has a unique skill, a strength he overlooked but others noticed. Instead of resenting the regimented order of the kitchen, he sees how it allows for better service. He is allowed a job, to deliver a surprise to a guest, and follows through with charm and care. He maintains a rough edge, a gruff Chicagoan in fine dining. But through owning his voice, the customers are charmed, the staff impressed. At the end of the night, he is no longer working in service because it is the only job left for him but because he is good at it. He is more than a loyal friend in chaos. The guests are impressed, the staff too now trust him. He drives home in the night air, windows down, blaring Taylor Swift, driving too fast but glowing. He sings along, a nod to his daughters favorite singer. Previous snippets of his personal life have shown disappointment, disconnection, misunderstanding. But in these moments he is smiling, and free, a perfect scene of release, of triumphant joy.

I carry this advice from a former teacher: find that thing that makes your work yours.

That is what I am wishing for you in the new year—roll the windows down and let the good air in. Laugh with your whole body. Do something you thought was impossible. Realize that the test you think you are failing is actually your moment to shine. Bring more moments of triumphant joy, cry in relief, let light into your bones, scream with love. Know that changes will keep coming; the challenges will not slow. Bring yourself fully to the challenge and answer it in the only way you can.

An essay on joy while we watch a genocide in real time? Even the Palestinian reporters who have been telling their story often to deaf ears, as colleagues are targeted and they suffer from hunger and thirst, even these reporters share moments of joy. It reminds us to be human. So we can continue to share stories, make connections and refuse to support these horrors. Stay loud and in the streets, keep calling reps, and donating to organizations such as the Palestine Children’s Relief Fund