My Top-Ten One-Season Wonders (part 4)

The final installment of a four-part series, this latest set constitutes #15-20 of my “top-10” one-season wonders: a numerical oxymoron that only makes sense if you’re counting in the vigesimal numeric system — or if you know my aversion to rules and common sense. As I noted in Part 3, I published my top 10 back in 2016, but so many late, lamented series have since reemerged on YouTube, Daily Motion, DVD and streaming channels that I decided the initial list was worth expanding. So here are my final five series — spanning more than 50 years — that vanished much too quickly.

Love on a Rooftop (1966-67): After he finished story editing the second season of Bewitched, writer Bernard Slade signed a deal with Screen Gems to churn out three pilots every year. A half-dozen went to series — the longest-running was The Partridge Family; the most controversial, Bridget Loves Bernie; the most preposterous, the Sally Field starrer The Girl With Something Extra (the "something extra" was E.S.P.) — but nothing as charming as his very first effort, Love on a Rooftop, with Judy Carne and Peter Duel (then Deuel) as a pair of opposites who fall in love and marry. She was the independent offspring of old-school money, an artist and a dreamer; he was practical and proud, an apprentice architect who insisted they live off his income, which was $73.67 per week. It was a culture clash set in San Francisco — where else? — and in the earliest episodes, the newlyweds, Dave and Julie Willis, found a studio apartment (with stairs leading to the roof) and agonized over expenses, while her wealthy parents appeared regularly to voice their disapproval and concern. The social, economic, generational and gender conflicts at the heart of the series grounded it; it was the rare mid-'60s sitcom that didn't rely on gimmicks or fantasy elements. And that said, that rooftop made it all pretty magical, right from the opening credits, which captured the pair atop their high rise, marveling at the view — then pulled back into a gorgeous aerial shot of San Francisco Bay. Oh, it was lovely: Carne and Deuel shared spectacular chemistry, and the scripts were intelligent and irreverent — a case in point being the sixth episode, Slade’s “The Six Dollar Surprise.” As the episode begins, Julie reminds Dave that his birthday is coming up — the first since they’ve been married — but he’s insistent he doesn’t want to celebrate; his parents died when he was young, and he was raised in five different foster homes. (How often is that the basis for a sitcom backstory?) Birthdays don’t bring back good memories. He gets her to promise: no party — and since they’re on a budget, no more than six dollars for a present. Almost at once, there’s the expected sitcom misunderstanding, when he hears her discussing a children’s party she’s helping to throw, and think it’s his — and warms to the idea. (Deuel is adorable, grinning like a schoolboy at the thought of his first surprise party.) Dave arrives home that night hunting for a celebration that we know isn’t happening — and of course, he’s left deflated. They go off to dinner, and as we near episode’s end, we wonder: will there be a twist? Are his friends there at the restaurant? — but no, not a supporting player in sight. And now we’re left deflated. But Dave can’t shake the feeling that everyone dining looks somehow familiar — and surprise: there is a party: Julie has placed an ad in his hometown paper (she spent exactly six dollars) and tracked down his foster parents, and they all flew in to celebrate. Slade has not only left him in the dark, but us as well; having watched our share of sitcoms, we thought him jumping to a wrong conclusion was the plot, but that was a sleight-of-hand disguising the real plot. Love on a Rooftop deftly combined romance, wit, screwball and genuine sentiment, and ultimately, it became one in a long list of sophisticated sitcoms that networks greenlighted in the mid-‘60s to duplicate the success of The Dick Van Dyke Show and then cancelled after one season, forgetting the lesson learned from The Dick Van Dyke Show, that those sorts of series don't always catch on right away. (Dick Van Dyke didn't crack the top 30 till its second season.) But it was heady fun while it lasted, and episodes still linger on YouTube.

Shrink (2017): All eight episodes premiered on March 16, 2017, on the now-defunct Seeso subscription streaming service, then NBC (which owned Seeso) aired the series on its own online network. And to this day, I continue to Google the show title every few months to see if there’s any word of a renewal, because it seems so preposterous that such a fresh and charming comedy should be abandoned after one season. Shrink wove its story around the plight of medical student David Tracy (co-creator Tim Baltz), who has lost his residency and accrued a half-million dollars in school debt; looking to pay off his bills and actually use his degree, he discovers he can become a clinical therapist if he performs just under two thousand hours of supervised therapy — and so he begins seeing patients for free in his parents' garage. (At the top of every episode, David starts his tape recorder and tells his latest patient, “Pursuant to the requirements set out in Illinois Statute 2225 ILCS-107, I am required to inform you that I am not a licensed psychologist, psychiatrist, or a registered therapist, but that these therapy sessions are being tape-recorded to provide a record of the 1,920 supervised clinical hours needed to acquire such a license.” It plays like a theme song from a generation ago, the kind that would set the tone while unabashedly explaining the premise.) Co-creator Ted Tremper, a Second City alum, drew the idea from the real-life experience of one of his friends, but he also saw the show as an ideal vehicle for improvised sessions using up-and-coming comedians. But although the therapy scenes are in part extemporaneous, they’re edited with precision; there’s an appealing looseness about them, but they never go limp. And although the series doesn’t assert that David is a naturally gifted “instant therapist,” neither does it demean his efforts — or his profession. Dave is self-absorbed to the point of being self-obsessed, and occasionally obtuse to the point of being dense (and he’s far too eager to insert himself into his patients’ sessions: feeling his clients’ pain often inspires him to tell them about his own), but he’s also surprisingly good at what he does — for an amateur. Near the end of the first episode, when he’s proven unable to secure a therapist willing to supervise him, he’s forced to announce to his patients that he’s closing up shop. One simply responds, “No.” “No?” David parrots, and she continues, “No. Do you know how many therapists I’ve seen in Chicago? 24.” David blurts out, “Holy shit,” and she explains, “But you’re the only one I’ve ever met who seems to enjoy people. Don’t get me wrong: you definitely don’t know what you’re doing. But you care way more than any of those other assholes I’ve talked to.” Those few lines legitimize the premise. And in the following episode, the psychiatrist who ultimately agrees to supervise him concedes that although David has a lot to learn, “Your instincts by and large are pretty good.” Through the course of the series, David navigates not merely his patients, but family and step-family, friends and former med students, new and old girlfriends, even the employer at the supermarket where he moonlights — and he stumbles through life much as he does the sessions he supervises. There’s a flaky yet fluky charm to it all, but there’s also clear method and momentum to the plotting, and when a late-season event shakes up the status quo, it feels both powerful and earned. Shrink was well-received and currently has a 95% online approval rating, but it slipped through the cracks, a casualty of Seeso’s sudden demise. Happily, NBC — whether in recognition of its quality or because folks keep tuning in — has kept Shrink available for streaming. Consider it appointment TV.

Lifestories (1990-91): NBC gave this medical anthology such a graveyard timeslot that advertisers were writing it off long before the fall season began. Each episode dealt with a health crisis: colon cancer in the pilot, and later, a brain tumor, a stroke, a heart attack. It tried to paint a human face on medical conditions by exploring them from the point of view of the patient, rather than (as TV had done for decades) the all-seeing, all-healing doctor, and the results were ambitious and unconventional. All the shows in this series of “One-Season Wonders” came and went much too fast; with Lifestories, I’m less concerned with how it came than how it went — because it went on a high, not just for the series, but for network television at the time. Its last regularly scheduled episode won a GLAAD Media Award for its portrayal of a closeted TV anchorman who discovers he’s HIV+ and, when he loses his lover to AIDS, chooses to disclose and discuss his status — and to educate the public — in regular on-air segments. Through the course of the ‘80s, AIDS had become a taboo subject for network television; by the final half of the decade, only a few series dared to tackle it, and the gay community, which the epidemic had most decimated, was frequently marginalized for the audience’s “comfort.” The Lifestories episode “Steve Burdick,” written by Richard Gollance, was unflinching in redressing the balance; when it aired on December 18, 1990, it was hailed as a watershed moment in television history. The Seattle Times declared it "as honest an exploration of AIDS as anything seen on commercial network TV." In The New York Times, John O’Connor, who had found the series to date “uneven but compelling,” reported, “Network television's neglect of AIDS and the epidemic's primary targets has been a disgrace. The good news: Things may be changing.” He found it “the kind of [programming] television should have been delivering years ago.” Gollance utilizes the Lifestories format to present Steve’s journey in vivid, often harrowing detail: his decision to be tested, and the cloak of anonymity that makes it all the more discomfiting; his reluctance to start a prophylaxis (even as he begins a regimen of AZT), because it makes his condition that much more real. His confrontation with his father, who makes it clear that his parents’ love is conditional. His denial as he experiences his first night sweats, and his muted terror as new symptoms arise. And his clashes with the station over content. Gollance is careful to ensure that Steve never seems too perfect. He’s beautifully drawn (and exquisitely played by D.W. Moffett): his decency, bravery, charm and resolve balanced by stubbornness, self-inflicted isolation and moments of self-pity and despair — and sometimes his self-righteousness proves damaging to the very message he’s trying to deliver. And Gollance pulls no punches in his depiction of the homophobia that Steve is battling. The station owner insists that each segment be preceded by a “viewer discretion” warning; while Steve discusses AIDS in impersonal, almost clinical terms, viewer interest and sympathy run high. But the moment he eulogizes his lover, complaints pour in, from congressmen claiming his segments are an affront to family values and from viewers uncomfortable with the subject matter. The station’s brazen, calculated efforts to censor Steve (“He has to resign. We fire him, the publicity will kill us”) only strengthen his resistance, until finally he explodes on the air (“What has happened in this country over the last 10 years since this plague began has been nothing less than extermination”), effectively ending his own career. “Steve Burdick” works on multiple levels, all of them devastating: as a character study of an ordinary man politicized by extraordinary circumstances; as a means of educating the public on HIV and AIDS; and as a diatribe against the conservatism and cowardice that were keeping these very TV programs from getting on the air. Thirty years later, Gollance’s script remains agonizingly powerful, a brutal reminder of the trauma that gay men faced a generation ago, and one that continues to haunt them to this day. Lifestories was a special series; “Steve Burdick” was a spectacular conclusion.

Selfie (2014): The premise is Shaw's Pygmalion, transplanted to the social-media era. She's Eliza Dooley, an online junkie who measures her worth in Twitter followers and Instagram hits; he's Henry Higgs, a buttoned-down, humorless advertising executive whom she implores to teach her how to forge real relationships — i.e., to be a better person. Are you hating it yet? If not, watch the pilot — then you'll hate it. It's as one-note and one-sided as you fear it would be (Eliza is presented as someone in need of "fixing"), and although Karen Gillan and John Cho have admitted appeal, there's nothing to suggest it could be fleshed out into a rich and sustainable sitcom. But boy, does the creative team get back to work after the pilot is picked up; the premise is expanded and the series instantly transformed. As it turns out, Eliza and Henry have a lot in common, most of all an eagerness to avoid social contact and intimate connections: her by keeping her presence virtual, him by staying too focused on his work. (It calls to mind that exchange between Fanny and Nick in Funny Girl: "You can get lonesome being that free." "You can get lonesome being that busy.") Henry needs Eliza’s help just as much as she needs his. Meanwhile the supporting players at KinderKare Pharmaceuticals, where Henry and Eliza work, are instantly given greater prominence, and they’re a marvelous bunch: Da’Vine Joy Randolph (as receptionist Charmonique), Giacomo Gianniotti (who’d move on to a long stint on Grey’s Anatomy), Brian Huskey, Matty Cardarople, Jennifer Hasty — plus, as company chairman, the great David Harewood, unleashed and deliciously unhinged. (He’s the sort of boss who strategizes ad campaigns by having his staff simulate playing in a jazz trio, and rewards his employees for good work with a quick dance and a dip.) The result was a workplace comedy that was both playful and anarchic, bursting with character-driven dialogue that made the outrageous seem altogether reasonable. Cho, fresh off a season-long stint on Sleepy Hollow, revealed himself a master of both the slow yearn and the slow burn, while Gillan showed enormous comic initiative and flair. But although the show was most assuredly about Eliza and Henry, and they probably would have ended up romantically paired had the show lasted a few seasons (although Eliza Doolittle and Henry Higgins, notably, did not get together in Pygmalion, nor — according to Shaw —- any time after), Selfie wasn’t consumed by the will-they/won’t-they theatrics that harness other shows. At heart, it was a series that stressed — ever so gently — that the journey (in this case, a journey of growth and self-awareness) is as important as the destination. But for the series itself, both the journey and the destination were awful. The pilot got a good sampling, then a quarter of the audience tuned out (because, of course, it was dreadful) — and ABC never gave it a chance to recover. Although the press started to note and promote its improvement right away (Robert Bianco at USA Today was a particular champion), ABC announced after four episodes that the show was canceled, even though the most recent one had seen an uptick in both total viewers and viewers 18-49. Adding insult to injury, the network aired episodes 5 and 6 out of sequence (although there were plot points in the former that informed the latter), then a week later shipped the remaining episodes off to Hulu — where blissfully, all thirteen filmed episodes return every year or so, for fans who remember it fondly and for new viewers in need of a little enchantment.

Honey West (1965-66): Producer Aaron Spelling was looking to launch a series that would ape the format and rival the appeal of the popular UK series The Avengers; he settled on an adaptation of the Honey West novels created by husband-and-wife team Gloria and Skip Forrest in the late '50s. He offered the title role — designed by its authors as an amalgam of screen actress Marilyn Monroe and fictional detective Mike Hammer — to Honor Blackman, who'd played Cathy Gale in The Avengers’ second and third seasons. But when she turned him down, he settled on Anne Francis, in a role that became so iconic, it was hard for her to shake. The series was adapted for television by its own husband-and-wife team, Gwen Bagni and Paul Dubov, who wrote roughly a third (and many of the best) of the 30 episodes. As conceived by Bagni and Dubov, and played with smoldering assurance by Francis, private investigator Honey West was both blonde bombshell and force of nature: stylish, irrepressible, dry-witted, quick-witted and undeniably astute. (Francis took home a Golden Globe Award and an Emmy nomination that season.) Her associate Sam Bolt (the rugged John Ericson) was handsome and headstrong: charming, sincere and easy prey to Honey’s flattery. They were hands down one of the most attractive couples ever seen on network television, and although the show postured that their relationship was strictly professional, we in the audience knew better. Pacing was everything on Honey West — episodes typically began in the middle of a case: during a high-speed car chase or a handover of classified materials or a back-alley brawl — and the fast cuts between scenes (often during a line of dialogue) were determinedly clever. (An example: Sam is stationed outside a coffee house, monitoring some musicians who’ve committed grand larceny. Honey, across town at a fashion show, cautions him, “Just don’t go in till I get there, please.” “What do I do?” he retorts: “Wait till I grow a beard?” And we cut to Honey seated in the coffee house, in disguise, and pull back to see Sam seating next to her, sporting a goatee: a West Coast Beat with sunglasses. “On you, it looks good,” Honey reassures him.) Yet for all its newfangled gadgets (Honey's lipstick was a microphone, her compact a receiver; Sam cruised town in a van with more electronic equipment than the computer banks at NASA), for all the karate chops and judo flips in offices and elevators and laundromats and diners (there was never a location that Honey and Sam couldn’t disrupt and destroy), for all the form-fitting outfits and sleek sports cars, the series biggest appeal was its charm — and almost a homespun charm at that. The pace was never too fast, the plotting never too dense, for some playful or competitive banter between the two leads, or ironic commentary from Honey’s Aunt Meg. This blended-family repartee, with Honey’s pet ocelot Bruce — typically sprawled across a coffee table — forever pulling focus, kept it all down-to-earth, even when the plotting grew improbable. Today, Honey West seems perfectly judged and pitched — but audiences didn’t take to it when it originally aired, at least not enough to secure it a second season. And so towards the end of the season — presumably to see if it might help goose the ratings — Bagni and Dubov start to steer the show in a more outrageous direction, and instead of fighting drug dealers and forgers and kidnappers, Honey and Sam are set down among gypsies and gorillas and killer robots. It threatens to becomes as campy as the Batman TV series, which had premiered a few months earlier (also on ABC), although to be fair, Bagni and Dubov were probably taking their cue from The Avengers itself, which — as it began it fourth season that same year — had begun to embrace more sci-fi and fantasy elements, including one episode about giant alien carnivorous plants. But Honey and Sam’s banter works best against a backdrop of at least semi-realistic danger. Happily, the sillier episodes come and go in a matter of weeks, and the show is back to doing what it does best. Available on DVD, for those still craving a taste of honey.

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Enjoy reading about TV's best? Check out two similarly-styled posts: The Five Best TV Shows You Might Not Be Watching and Five Foreign TV Dramas You Shouldn't Miss. Or if you enjoy detailed looks at hit shows, check out my write-ups of Cold Case Season 4, Gilmore Girls Season 7 (and the subsequent, ill-judged Netflix miniseries), Judging Amy Season 6, and fourteen essays devoted to each season of the great primetime soap Knots Landing, starting here. I also look back at Murder, She Wrote and pick out The 10 Best "Murder She Wrote" Mysteries -- not (necessarily) my top episodes, but the best whodunnits. Or if you have a preference for sitcoms, I delve into Rhoda Season 3, WKRP in Cincinnati Season 4 and Bewitched Season 2, pen an appreciation of the underrated Mike & Molly, and offer up some thoughts as to why The New Adventures of Old Christine took such a tumble in quality over its five seasons.