One Day at a Time season 7

I’ve resisted doing this essay for years, because I could sing the praises of One Day at a Time Season 7, but how would you watch it? No DVDs are available, and the only place it’s streaming right now is Pluto TV. But it goes beyond that. Just defining “One Day at a Time Season 7” is tricky. A whole lot of episodes produced that season are splendid — and the season arc is glorious — but Season 7, as it aired, also included several episodes left unaired from Season 6, and they stink. (The 1980 actors’ strike held up the start of most TV shows that season; One Day at a Time produced 24 episodes for Season 6, but only 21 had aired by season’s end. The rest were inserted, rather haphazardly, into Season 7.) And the domino effect continued; a couple episodes produced for Season 7 didn’t air until Season 8, and they’re worth a look. If you assemble the episodes intended for Season 7, it’s not just a highly watchable season, but a fine example of returning writers resuscitating a show that seems to be on its last legs. It’s a crucial season that reinvents a floundering series and ultimately affords it a lengthy run. But you really have to zero in on the episodes produced for Season 7, and not the ones that aired — and you’d need a chart for that. So what the hell: I’ll do a chart. I figure the people who read this blog are used to working a bit to locate the shows I recommend. And in fact, some of you are probably as old as me, and remember when we had to adjust the rabbit ears each time we changed the channel — so you don’t mind a little effort when it comes to watching television.

So let’s talk about One Day at a Time Season 7, and then God help you, go out and try to find it. It’s currently, as noted, airing on Pluto — amusingly (and perhaps tellingly) in production order, not in the order aired, pretty much how it should be watched — but that might no longer be true by the time you read this. Here’s the season as it aired, and beside it, the episodes shot specifically for Season 7, in the order best viewed.

In case your memory — or knowledge of TV history — doesn’t extend back to 1975, One Day at a Time was the last of the long-running series to emerge from the Norman Lear factory. It premiered in December of 1975, and remained on the air for nine seasons. 34-year-old divorcée Ann Romano moves from Logansport, IN, to Indianapolis, with her two teenage daughters Julie and Barbara in tow. A few lines in the pilot episode set up the premise. Julie wants to go on an overnight camping trip with some friends; Ann puts her foot down, prompting Julie to go stay with her father, leaving Ann to lament, “For the first seventeen years of my life, my father made the decisions. The next seventeen years, my husband made the decisions. The first time in my life I make a decision, and I blow it.” Fay, starring Lee Grant as a divorcee, had premiered earlier that season and fizzled out within a few months; the Lear factory was quick to point out, when One Day at a Time was announced, that Ann Romano wasn’t a sleek sophisticate like Fay, but a scared woman navigating uncharted territory. It made for good copy, but it also happened to be true. It was a solid foundation for a series — co-creator Whitney Blake based it on her own life as a single divorced mother — and if the premise was rarely well-realized, it still had enormous appeal. One Day at a Time was the odd show sustained more by concept than execution. (It’s why the show was ripe for remaking in 2017.)

Although there were additional principals in the early years (Pat Harrington Jr. as building super Dwayne Schneider, who stuck around for the entire run; Richard Masur as Ann’s divorce attorney and boyfriend, David Kane, written off after 22 episodes; and Mary Louise Wilson as Ginny Wroblicki, the wisecracking neighbor, who lasted a mere 17), the primary focus was on Bonnie Franklin as Ann, Mackenzie Phillips as Julie and Valerie Bertinelli as Barbara. They were all three of them pretty awful, at least to start. Bertinelli was so green that the producers had her take acting lessons after the first season. Phillips had a raw, nervy vitality, but her performing style — if you can even call it that — was undisciplined and unfocused. And then there was Franklin. She had pluck and sincerity and occasional warmth — and not much else. As an actress, she was a mass of contradictions, few of them flattering. Her face was both round and rubbery, her body language at once obvious and curious. She could go from 0 to 100 in the bat of an eye, but struggled with all the digits in between. She didn’t so much process emotions as arrive at them, often clumsily — and ostentatiously, as if announcing, “Here I am being concerned.” “Here I am being furious.” It’s probably tacky to note that Franklin, prior to being cast as Ann Romano, had enjoyed her greatest acclaim informing a Broadway audience, “What is it that we’re living for? Applause, applause” — but it’s also sort of inescapable. On the One Day at a Time soundstage, at least in those early years, that still seems to be her MO. Everything seems designed for maximum effect. If one were to be charitable, one could call her acting choices bold, but that does a disservice to all the genuinely intrepid performances to come out of the ’70s — especially from the Lear shows. Offhand, I can’t think of a Lear-show performance so brash yet so unsubtle. Or so inconsistent. For every moment Franklin manages well, you can point to two other bits she doesn’t pull off at all. (She’s especially bad at things that are straight out of Acting 101 – e.g., Ann has a cold, Ann dissolves into laughter.)

For the first five seasons, the principal tone was histrionic, and when it wasn’t histrionic, it turned warm and fuzzy. The subject matter broke new ground, but not much else about the show did. There were some formidable episodes, but they were formidable mostly because of the topicality and punch of the story-lines, and not because of the acting. But those story-lines were bountiful; the show — for the first five seasons at least — was never at a loss for words. It had older sister Julie, who was 15 when the series began. Julie pretty much invited conflict; she was an odd combination of indecisiveness and inflexibility. With her ragamuffin hair and pixilated eyes, she embodied the sort of undisciplined teenager who’s catnip to a writers’ room; the show was never lacking for story-lines when Julie Cooper was around. Her rebelliousness could lead her anywhere the writers needed her to go: running off with her boyfriend, finding Jesus, getting involved with a married man, or tying the knot with the best man at her own wedding. Julie’s rashness wouldn’t just suggest story-lines, but sustain them. Her stories frequently stretched across multiple episodes (the four above took up three months of airtime), because Julie resisted all efforts to course correct.

For five seasons, the Ann-Julie dynamic supplied the show with most of its energy, not to mention its plots. But when Mackenzie Phillips was fired near the end of Season 5, due to her ongoing drug use, where were the writers to turn? Barbara was nearly 20 by that point, and didn’t have the antagonistic relationship with her mother that Julie did; the show could no longer depend on the mother-daughter battles that were its bread and butter. And although Phillips’ talents were modest, her energy was formidable. You couldn’t necessarily say she was good at what she did, but she was highly watchable. What was going to keep you tuning in?

The writers use Season 6 to refocus the show; Ann opens her own ad agency, taking on Ron Rifkin as her partner — and later her boyfriend. (She’d previously worked for a firm called Connors and Davenport, but Connors was played by John Hillerman, who’d snagged a lead role on Magnum, P.I., and Charles Siebert, who played Davenport, had moved on to Trapper John, M.D. a year earlier — so Ann’s move was dictated as much by necessity as by inspiration.) Season 6 isn’t a badly written season; the writers try to depict the challenges of starting a business, and even manage a good episode that sheds light on some of the unsavory practices that stained the advertising industry at the time. It’s just not what the show needs. The series grows more earnest, and it was earnest enough already. For all of Franklin’s limitations as an actress, she came off as very sincere. You believed she thought she was doing important work, and you believed Ann Romano felt the same. As Ann Romano saw the world, every hiccup was a crisis waiting to be solved; as Bonnie Franklin saw it, every sitcom staple was a teachable moment. One of the things that gave One Day at a Time a little complexity beyond its premise was Franklin and Ann’s shared sense of self-importance. (Sometimes it was the only thing that salvaged a subpar episode.) For a season that’s trying to move the show in new directions, Season 6 feels oddly static — like a show jogging in place, and getting more cumbersome by the second.

And so another soft reboot occurs — the fourth in six years. Rifkin’s character is killed off between Seasons 6 and 7. Where to turn now? How about to Bertinelli? It turns out to be an inspired idea — but it’s not a move without risk. For six seasons, Barbara Cooper has been the hardest character to pin down — or to write for. She started off a tomboy, then once she embraced adolescence, found herself stranded in her sister’s shadow. Barbara was always the “good one.” She had her defiant moments, which led to some of her better episodes, but she was the sort of character who always plagued sitcom writers. How do you dig into a character who’s fundamentally passive and decent? The writers spend the years manufacturing crises to give her the occasional spotlight, and those episodes tap into previously unseen traits — jealousy, disillusion, recklessness, righteousness — that don’t upset the sense of sanity at the character’s core.

By Season 7, Valerie Bertinelli has gained enough skill as an actress to be able to absorb and internalize all those traits, and as a result, Barbara Cooper finally feels fully grown: not just in terms of age but in terms of character. And Bertinelli, at the same time, has stopped conforming to standard sitcom practices. She stays distanced enough from scenes so she can smile at the occasional absurdity of them, as Adrienne Barbeau did so memorably on Maude; she gives herself permission to laugh at the jokes, and in doing so, starts to feel like the only adult in the room. During the more urgent moments, she no longer turns up the volume, but brings it down; instead of hitting the lines harder, she backs away from them, as Susan Saint James would do so well on Kate & Allie. And she learns how to use that mane of brunette hair as a fabulous prop. The years of hard work — by both Bertinelli and the writers — have paid off. She’s ready to anchor the show.

But what sort of story-line to give her? In a smart move, the writers settle on a romantic comedy. And why not? The series has done issues for days: teen suicide and sexual harassment and infidelity, to name three. It’s done sibling rivalry and generational warfare, high school angst and corporate intrigue. What it has never done is romantic comedy. It’s a breath of fresh air — not just for the series, but for sitcoms in general.

The ’70s and ’80s were not a good time for romantic comedy on TV. The ’60s had spoiled us. It’s probably simplistic to say that it all started with Rob and Laura Petrie, but their influence is undeniable. For a decade, the screen seemed to be bursting with smart couples who gave good banter — from the early years of Bewitched to the short but memorable runs of He and She and Love on a Rooftop. But the Lear comedies and the Garry Marshall comedies didn’t really lend themselves to romantic comedy, and MTM Enterprises never excelled at it either — their “friends are the new family” motto practically precluded it. (It’s sort of telling that their one fairytale romance ended in divorce.) It wasn’t until the ’90s that we started to see appealing and surprising romantic pairings again — and I’m not talking about the “will they/won’t they” couplings that have infested the small screen for the last 30 years. I’m thinking more of Monica and Chandler in Season 5 of Friends, or Ellen and Laurie in Season 5 of Ellen. Or Ted and Robin in Season 2 of How I Met Your Mother. The couples so comedically in tune that their crises never dissolve into melodrama — whose jokes and barbs betray burgeoning affection and whose very cleverness sustains and informs their relationships. 20-year-old Barbara Cooper was ready-made for a screwball romance.

In the seventh episode filmed for Season 7, Barbara has a date with a dental student named Mark Royer, whose uncle manages the store where she works. (It’s Boyd Gaines, in one of his earliest screen appearances.) There’s just one problem: Barbara is already dating another guy. She’s playing with fire, and she knows it, and she’s not ashamed. On the contrary, she’s quite pleased with herself.

Barbara: I told [Mark] that I was seeing somebody. Sort of.
Ann: Sort of seeing somebody?
Barbara: Well, you know that Jack is at the university, and he’s only home on weekends.
Ann : Right…
Barbara: So I sort of see him. I don’t actually see him Monday through Thursday.
Ann: Barbara, that’s a technicality.
Barbara: OK, so I’m having dinner on a technicality.
Ann: Look, sweetheart, I think you should see a lot of different guys. I mean, you are much too young to get serious. And you’re pretty enough to get away with murder. But even you can’t have it both ways.
Barbara: What do you want me to do? Sit home by the hearth four nights a week? I’m a big girl — I can handle it.

And she probably could handle it, if Jack — in typical sitcom fashion — didn’t call to say that he’d come home early that weekend and wanted to see her. Easy peasy, Barbara thinks. She’s having dinner with Mark at 7; she makes plans to see Jack at 9:30. Barbara has retained the sweetness we fell in love with, but she’s become a much more fascinating creature in her ability to justify her occasional bad behavior. “I’m gonna go out tonight,” she announces smugly, “and I’m gonna have a good time. With Mark — and with Jack.”

From here, you presume the episode will find Barbara shuttling between dates, or frantically rushing from the first to the second. But the show’s got something much more honest — and devastating — in mind. Barbara and Mark clearly hit it off. (“The first time I saw you,” Mark insists, “I thought: there is a girl with a lovely set of bicuspids.” “You know, Mr. Royer,” Barbara admits, charmed and amused, “I’ve heard a little sweet talk in French, Dutch, even Latin — but you’re the only man I know who speaks dentistry beautifully.”) So when she realizes she’s been enjoying her time with Mark so much that it’s grown later than she thought, she decides to come clean with him about why she needs to go. And he understands, he says, as he reaches into his pocket for spare change.

Barbara: What’s that?
Mark: That’s a dime. Call your friend. Tell him you won’t be there.

He refuses to buy her dinner, then take her home to spend the rest of the night with another guy. But Barbara — who, as her mother so aptly put it, is used to getting away with murder — is adamant: “I want you to take me home now.” She keeps repeating it, less angrily than haughtily, as if she’s some sort of visiting royalty, and he’s her chauffeur. And he finally promises to do so, but not until she agrees to let him take her to a place “that brews the best cup of java you’ve ever had in your life.”

Fair enough, except when we cut to the next scene, and they’re in the car heading back from the coffee house, we learn that it was in Kokomo, Indiana. (Some 60 miles away, for those who are curious, although the show makes it clear that it was quite the long drive.) She calls him every four-letter word she can muster — not merely the ones the network censors will allow, but the ones that characterize her ongoing transition from girl to woman: “pill” and “nerd” and “jerk.” He parries without breaking a sweat. In fact, he maintains the sense of humor she lost hours earlier.

Barbara: I hate you. I despite you. I detest you.
Mark: OK, that does it. No good night kiss for you.

And the audience roars. They love him — and his refusal to take her self-induced rantings seriously. We’ve been set up to see Barbara, our heroine, as someone who needs to be taken down a notch. (Mark describes her as “a little stuck up and kind of thoughtless”; we love Barbara, but he’s not wrong. It’s nice to see, by Season 7, how seamlessly these flaws have been woven into her character. They don’t undermine her; they humanize her.) By the time they reach her apartment, she’s so flustered she can’t find her keys.

Barbara: Terrific. It’s almost midnight. I’m going to have to wake my mom and tell her what?
Mark: How about the truth?
Barbara: What? That I’ve been driving around the state with a jerk?
Mark: Oh no, you don’t. It’s too late to make up now.

(He’s Cary Grant, and she’s Carole Lombard — who strangely, never did a screwball together.) Barbara’s wailing serves to wake up most of the apartment building, including her mother and Schneider, but although she’s incensed at the events of the evening, Mark continues to puncture her pretenses.

Mark: Well, I guess what happened was really unforgivable. (A pause) Barbara should’ve phoned.
Barbara (incensed): He drove me across half the state and wouldn’t bring me home to meet Jack.
Schneider: Now wait a second, I can see his point. He’s got a date with a girl and then she’s meeting another guy…
Ann: Shut up, Schneider.
Schneider: Of course, I can see your point too.
Mark: Look, maybe I’m wrong, maybe she’s wrong… (to Barbara) You just said you’re not a kid, so stop acting like one. Start thinking for yourself and speak for yourself.
Barbara: I do speak for myself. (to Ann) Tell him, mom.
Mark: Look, Ms. Romano, I’m sorry you worried, and I’m sorry you’re upset. But I’d do it again. Good night.

Schneider expresses approval at Mark holding his ground — the standard writer’s trick where the breakout character is used to certify the addition of a new cast member. The following morning Barbara is still fuming. Or is she? She needs to borrow her mother’s scarf, because she left hers in Mark’s car. “That old chestnut?” Schneider chuckles, reminding us that when a woman wants a man to call after a date, she deliberately leaves something behind. Barbara insists she has no desire to see Mark — or is she protesting too much? But when she calls Mark about the scarf, he informs her he’ll mail it to her; he apparently has no desire to see her either. Growing increasingly defensive and hostile and humbled, Barbara sits down at the kitchen table and pours herself a cup of coffee, which she samples then spits out, grimacing.

Schneider: Something wrong with the coffee?
Barbara: Well, it’s not the best cup of coffee I’ve ever had!
Ann: Oh, really? And where was the best cup of coffee you ever had?
Barbara (bemused): Kokomo, Indiana.

And the words “to be concluded next week” flash on the screen. “Dinner at Seven” Part 1 — like Part 2 — was written by Bud Wiser, a script consultant since Season 3 who had risen to the position of producer. The term “showrunner” wasn’t yet in vogue, but it’s reasonable to presume he was one of the people steering the ship. He was also the series’ best writer, and “Dinner at Seven,” to my mind, is not just the best Season 7 has to offer, but the show’s finest hour. It’s perfectly judged romantic comedy, on a show you never dreamed would have had the chance or the acting chops to go there.

Part 2 finds Barbara finagling Mark into a second date (or is he the one doing the finagling?), to clarify her feelings about him. They both admit, to their mutual astonishment, that they’ve been feeling ambivalent since their first date. And in the last 10 minutes of the episode, as they settle down to the meal she’s prepared, the mood grows decidedly more muted. Gentler, more intimate. Oh, it’s as heated as their first date, but now the pair are generating a different kind of heat.

Mark: Barbara, did I happen to mention that you’re the most beautiful woman in the room?
Barbara (amused): No.
Mark: Well, I will sometime. Remind me.
Barbara: When?
Mark: Well, maybe at a rock concert where there are about a million people. Or a Pacers game. Miss America pageant.
Barbara: This is either the smoothest pitch I’ve ever heard, or else —
Mark: I think it’s “or else.”
Barbara: That would be nice.

They manage to be both starry-eyed and practical, in the best screwball style. (After their first kiss, Barbara practically purrs, “That was nice,” while Mark — the wannabe doctor — sums it up more clinically: “Yup. Felt right.”) And in that swoony abandon reminiscent of Thirties romantic comedies, Mark gets so caught up in his newfound feelings that he blurts out a premature marriage proposal:

Barbara: Is this how these things happen?
Mark: I don’t know. I’ve never done this before.
Barbara: Well, Mark, you can’t just ask someone to marry you on their second date. Can you?
Mark: Well, I sure couldn’t ask you on the first date.

(They ultimately decide the right time for a proposal is after six weeks and four days, which is pretty much how it plays out.) Every time Mark tests the boundaries of their new relationship, Barbara cautions him that he’s moving too fast, then registers disappointment that he didn’t try harder. It’s wickedly playful. Bertinelli and Gaines do stellar work here, as they have throughout these two episodes (and as they will all season): their line readings at once delicate, witty, surprising and deeply satisfying. Wiser noted that he based Barbara and Mark’s first date on his own first date with his wife Christine. However he managed it, he created a sitcom classic — and devised a pairing that would revitalize the show and reinvent its tone. The truth is, Bonnie Franklin ceases to be the lead in the seventh season of One Day at a Time. Valerie Bertinelli takes over that role. (Tellingly, it’s Bertinelli who got the cover story on TV Guide that season.) And the strongest episodes take their cue from Bertinelli’s acting style; they back away from the full-throated shout-offs that distinguished the first five seasons. The show morphs into something lighter, warmer and headier. From there, every few episodes, we check back in on Barbara and Mark, to see how their relationship is developing. But it doesn’t progress in the usual ways; they don’t have those “first fights” so common to new couples. Mark is merely integrated — slowly and seamlessly — into the principal cast, until the writers feel it’s time to cement Barbara and Mark’s standing as the new de facto leads of the show; they do so in four episodes — spread across two months — that vary beautifully in tone and reach new heights of ingenuity.

In “Barbara’s Crisis,” Barbara — after a routine visit to her gynecologist — discovers she has endometriosis, and can’t bear children. Bertinelli expertly portrays all the way that Barbara feels stunned, scared, saddened and — this being the 1982 — inadequate. And although Barbara’s grief is in no way minimized, what the episode ultimately serves to do is to strengthen the bond between Barbara and Mark; she fears he’ll break things off, but instead, his response is to formally propose: knee to the floor, ring in the box, the whole nine yards. And the audience swoons. (Using a medical crisis to cement a couple’s standing is not my favorite narrative device, but here it’s handled impeccably. Offhand, I can’t think of a comedy or drama series that’s pulled off a “whirlwind romance” so well — that’s known every button to push, and done it so confidently.) Two weeks later, the writers shake up the format in “Diamonds Are Forever,” as Mark tags along on an ice-fishing expedition with Schneider, while Grandma Romano (Nanette Fabray) prepares a meal for Ann and Barbara. And the men and the women — in cross-cutting vignettes — talk about marriage: their experiences with it, their feelings about it, and how it relates to Barbara and Mark’s upcoming nuptials. There’s no “story” to speak of. There are no big reveals. It’s all conversational and low-key, but scripted with such specificity and played with such sincerity that you’re captivated. And three weeks later, lest we harbor any fears that Barbara and Mark‘s romance is making the show too serious or too muted, the pair take off for Vegas, where Mark has been assigned to take notes at a dental conference. The ensuing hour is basically two episodes of coitus self interruptus, when Barbara — who decided in Season 3 to hold off having sex until she was married — decides that she’s ready. “I’ve waited all my life for the right man and the right moment,” she informs Mark: “It’s here.” Mark tries to remind her how important it was for her to wait till her wedding night, but he’s a man, and only human: he doesn’t try too hard — especially when Barbara, who insists she’s being led by her head and not her hormones, proves hell-bent on seducing him. (“I am warning you,” he cautions her, “I’m going to be very easy to convince.”) They ultimately decide to hold off, but burn a hole in the screen before they do.

So what’s happening to Ann while Barbara and Mark are enjoying their multi-episode romantic comedy? Well, here’s where Season 7 gets even more inspired. The writers latch onto a character who’d only appeared three times (once each in Seasons 3, 4 and 6) — an Eve Harrington type at Connors and Davenport with a history of backstabbing Ann — and promote her to Ann’s new business partner. Francine Webster, played by Shelley Fabares, doesn’t just get a career promotion in Season 7; she gets a character upgrade. When she first appeared, in Season 3’s “Ann’s Competitor,” the ground rules were clear: Ann was the heroine and Francine wasn’t allowed to do anything to disturb that. She wasn’t even permitted to enjoy her own machinations; that might make her come alive in a way that seemed fun or intriguing or, heaven forbid, rootworthy — and the writers couldn’t have that. So Fabares turned in a dutifully passive performance that didn’t reveal much about where she could take the character, except to suggest that she was game for anything. But noticeably, Franklin sprang to life. Oh, she had to do one of her patented “Ann has a cold” bits, and it was even worse than usual, but the rest of her performance was sharp as a tack. Near the end, she typed an imagined eulogy, dictating it aloud for Francine’s benefit: “Here lies Francine Webster — and lies and lies and lies…” Her delivery was, for a change, impeccable. The writers clearly observed that Franklin upped her game every time Fabares was around. Could this quietly adversarial character be reimagined for a longer run?

The Francine who reemerges at the top of Season 7 has been refashioned to play to all of Shelley Fabares’ comic strengths. Executive Script Consultant Ron Bloomberg seems to have masterminded the transformation; as Bloomberg scripts it, Francine’s deviousness has been replaced by proud determination, gumption and practicality. She sets her goals, then doggedly pursues them; her love of a challenge means she’s good at getting what she wants, and she takes pleasure in that — and that pleasure is contagious. She’s elevated flirting to an art form — using not just her attractiveness, but her savviness — and we enjoy watching her assert her power over men. (Her flirting doesn’t do any harm; in the end, all she does is make a bunch of needy men feel good about themselves.) She’s always ready with a smart remark, and her sense of fashion is welcome on a series where the leading lady runs around in a red feather coat. Simply put, you love watching her. She’s a confident, single career woman in 1981 — this former schemer becomes a feminist icon.

“You are creative as hell, and I can sell anything,” Francine announces to Ann early in Season 7, making her pitch for a partnership. She’s patting herself on the back, and rightly so, but she’s also very willing to give Ann her due. It feels absolutely right that Ann and Francine should go into business together; their skill sets complement each other beautifully. “I knew we would be great together,” Francine informs Ann, “and I thought you would be smart enough to see it.” And Francine is right. Francine basically spends the entire season being right. Ann is still mistrustful of her — not unreasonable given their history — but every time the show returns to an Ann vs. Francine plotline, Francine wins. She doesn’t just win the battles, she wins our sympathies. The show takes her side. Ann misjudges her — and is proven wrong. “I’ve never met anyone so honest about being deceptive,” Ann informs Francine, in what’s designed as a dig. “I prefer to think of it as charm with purpose,” Francine counters — and indeed, in Season 7 she comes off as both charming and purposeful. She does marvelous things for the show — and for Bonnie Franklin.

By Season 7, Franklin’s mannerisms have become calcified: the way she launches into action by standing and twirling once; her habit of raising her hand to her head as a thought is forming; the high-pitched screeching when she gets angry; the drawled “oh my God” and the rapid-fire “dammit” — it’s all grown wearisome. Franklin was a heavy presence, and ironically, Fabares — so buoyant and vivacious — only calls attention to Franklin’s shortcomings. In the showdowns between Francine and Ann, you enjoy watching Francine light a fire under Ann, or take her down a peg or two. It’s an odd approach for a show entering its seventh season: to add a character who exposes all of the lead’s weaknesses. But it turns out to be just what the show needs.

Ann’s perceived rivalry with Francine comes to a head in a late-season entry entitled “Meow, Meow.” A quick synopsis should send you rushing from the room (the very title should be offensive): it’s about Ann and Francine battling it out over a man. On the surface, it should be the most offensive of pitches: the character who once prided herself on being a feminist — “Ms. Romano” — jumps through comic hoops trying to reel in a man. But that’s not what the episode is about. It’s about Ann, who’s turning 40, fearing that she’s no longer attractive to men, or more specifically, that she’s not as attractive to men as Francine (which she’s not). So she stoops to dirty tricks by telling a handsome client, who’s due to have dinner with Francine that night, that Francine has had to travel unexpectedly to Chicago — then tells Francine the same story about the client. She maneuvers the client to her apartment for dinner, when who walks in but Francine, needing some papers signed? It’s the expected comedy of errors, as Ann frantically tries to keep the two from seeing each other (Franklin is unusually agile) — and winds up making a big fool of herself. And then to make matters worse, when Francine gets wise to Ann’s deception, she instantly starts to cover for her, telling the client that indeed she was scheduled to go to Chicago, but her flight got canceled. Francine may use her wiles to get what she wants, but down deep she’s a caring person who’s sensitive to Ann’s insecurities. And that’s the last straw for Ann; that puts her over the edge. Francine is not just more alluring and appealing, she’s kinder and more compassionate. Ann is deflated and mortified — and the episode is content to leave her there.

It’s fascinating what happens to Ann Romano in Season 7. This is the woman who once grounded the show with some semblance of decorum — who had ended an affair with a married man in Season 4 by insisting that the most important thing to her was her self-respect. She pretty much abandons her dignity in Season 7, whether she’s plotting to steal a man from Francine, or indulging in a drunken midlife crisis, or belittling her daughter for changing her wedding plans, or ignoring the needs of the 13-year-old boy she’s fostering. (More on him later.) Hell, the final episode filmed that season ends with her taking a header into a mud wrestling pit. Season 7 feels liberating for Bonnie Franklin — and for us. With Bertinelli having stepped into the role of leading lady, Franklin is freed from having to serve as the show's moral compass, and Ann is allowed to go a little crazy. She eats crow a lot in Season 7. She’s humiliated on occasion. Putting herself in competition with someone who’s smarter and sexier drives Ann to the brink. It’s hugely entertaining, and more important, it’s a scenario that does wonders for Bonnie Franklin. There’s a lightness and a verve and a spontaneity to her performances that have rarely been on display — and her tour-de-force in “Ann, the Failure,” in which she projects her disappointments about her own life onto her daughter, might well be her best work. Francine throws Ann off her game, and the character and the actor and the series are all the better for it.

And now a few words about that 13-year-old boy I referenced earlier. More than a few words, because he’s very good. Glenn Scarpelli had been introduced in Season 6 as Alex, the son of Ron Rifkin‘s character, who first resented — then came to accept — Ann’s relationship with his divorced father. When Rifkin’s character was killed off between seasons, the decision was made to retain Scarpelli; in the season opener, Alex’s mother appears at Ann’s door, concerned that her traveling with her new husband is going to disrupt Alex’s life, and asks Ann if she’ll keep him for the rest of the school year (which turns out to be three seasons). With Barbara approaching 20, it gives Ann a teenager to raise once again. Scarpelli has talent, and Season 7 catches him at a perfect time — at the start of adolescence. His voice is changing; his features don’t quite fit on his physique. He’s at that awkward age that’s both fun and painful to watch. He’s a kid in flux, playing a kid in flux. There are countless opportunities for story-lines — but sadly, most of them are overlooked or underdeveloped. The writers seem so consumed — not unreasonably — with Barbara and Mark’s budding relationship, and Francine and Ann butting heads, that they don’t properly dig into a legitimate topic: how does raising a 13-year-old boy differ from raising a 13-year-old girl?

But Scarpelli has one standout episode, and it’s a stunner. Written by Paul Perlove, who joins the series in Season 7 and proves a godsend, “Mrs. O’Leary’s Kid” finds Alex — after secretly smoking with a friend in Schneider’s camper — accidentally setting fire to it, along with part of the apartment building. Scarpelli radiates guilt and shame and embarrassment, crying what seem to be legitimate tears: horrified at the magnitude of what he’s done, with no idea how to make it right. The episode also exposes Ann’s parental hypocrisy — having taken Alex in as an adopted son, but still holding him at arm’s length — and it’s an especially good showcase for Pat Harrington, who lets you understand how much — in his own mind — he’s assumed the role of a father figure to Alex. (Harrington has three showcases in Season 7, but it’s here, where he’s still a supporting player, that you’re reminded what a good actor he is, and how subtle his comic timing can be.) “Mrs. O’Leary‘s Kid” marks a return to the sort of dramatic storylines that popped up frequently in the show’s early years. And although Scarpelli is appealing and useful and funny throughout Season 7, it’s only here that we truly get to see how valuable he is.

Season 7 is one of those fascinating seasons where a show’s concept has come undone, and the show needs to be rebuilt — and miraculously, every decision made turns out to be a smart one. And it’s not just this guy who noticed. The show’s first Emmy recognition? For Season 7: a (much-deserved) nod for Bonnie Franklin, and a win for director Alan Rafkin, for “Barbara’s Crisis.” Its first Golden Globe statues? For Valerie Bertinelli and Pat Harrington in Season 7. (Bertinelli repeated her win the following year.) The show’s sole Humanitas Prize nomination? For “Mrs. O’Leary‘s Kid.” Season 7 — the one that strays furthest from the show’s premise — is easily the most celebrated season. The series spends most of its life in the shadow of its Lear stablemates; Season 7 is the one time it doesn’t feel like any of them — or anything else on the air, for that matter.

What’s amusing about the awards recognition for Season 7 is that the season — as I noted at the top — wasn’t even telecast at its best. It’s so much stronger once you remove the leftovers from Season 6 (“Airport,” “Stick ’Em Up” and “It’s in the Cards”) and restore the remaining episodes to their proper chronology. (“Hardball” and “Gift Horses,” both filmed early in Season 7, needed to air early, because they exist in a pre-Mark universe. But perhaps because of the overflow of episodes from Season 6, they were thrown into late-season slots that made no sense. When Alex asks Barbara to coach his softball team in “Hardball,” his pitch is “it’s your chance to meet a lot of cute guys,” and Barbara seems tempted — even though, as aired, she and Mark are already engaged. I know I was confused in 1981, and I’m sure I wasn’t the only one.)

As filmed, Season 7 is an impressive season — but it’s not without its failings. It’s essentially about putting new pieces in place, and when those pieces are where they need to be, it’s marvelous fun. But no doubt aware that in Season 6, they implemented changes swiftly and boldly, and all their efforts amounted to nothing, the writers approach Season 7 more cautiously — and that caution is a bit of a drag. For the first two episodes, you see new machinery being hauled around — then you spend five episodes watching the show try to coast on its old apparatus. But once Gaines and Fabares are introduced — and start clicking with audiences — you can practically hear the writers’ pens clicking as well. And once the writers begin to redefine Franklin and Bertinelli’s roles, and the actresses up their games to meet the challenges, the synergy becomes palpable and powerful — and the season takes off in ways you never expected. (The reinvention of One Day at a Time is pretty much undone ten episodes into Season 8 — but that’s an essay for another day.)

In many ways, Season 7 is the most erratic of seasons; the writers are forging a new path as they go — and they occasionally seem unaware that the old methods won’t work anymore. Every time they revert to the tried-and-true — e.g., the Schneider-centric episodes, or the execrable “Orville and Emily,” in which the cast is forced to put on a show at a retirement home (as they had in Seasons 2 and 5) and which mercifully has been removed from the syndication cycle — the results feel empty and dispiriting; you lament that they haven’t been rethought the way the rest of the series has. It’s like you’re embarking on a wonderful journey, and then you stop to look at old, faded photos. (The addition of Francine to the late-season Schneider episodes would’ve aided them immeasurably; whenever Fabares and Gaines go missing, their absence is felt.) But the moves the writers do make turn out to be so incalculably right, they propel the journey along that much further and faster. As a result, the pleasures of Season 7 are scattershot — but they’re formidable.

Do you enjoy in-depth looks at hit shows? If so, I delve into Rhoda Season 3, Maude Season 2, Newhart Season 7, WKRP in Cincinnati Season 4 and Bewitched Season 2; serve up my 10 Best Episodes of The Mary Tyler Moore Show, Designing Women, WKRP in Cincinnati, Kate & Allie and Everybody Loves Raymond; 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. Or if you have a preference for dramas, check out my write-ups of Criminal Minds Season 8, Judging Amy Season 6, Doctor Who Series 8, Voyager Season 4, Gilmore Girls Season 7 (and the subsequent, ill-fated Netflix miniseries), Grantchester Series 6, Cold Case Season 4, and fourteen essays devoted to each season of the great nighttime soap Knots Landing. 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.