The OC, Season 4

Once upon a time, I dated a girl who loved The OC. Each week, she and her roommates would gather in the common room of their college apartment and hang on every word spoken by the residents of Newport Beach, California (not to mention swoon over Ryan Atwood, the series' bad boy). All the while, I condescendingly mocked them for being so enthralled by a show meant for high school kids and returned to the serious, grown-up work of planning my next D&D campaign.

Then one Thursday night, my girlfriend suggested I sit in on a viewing, insisting that there was more to The OC than its reputation as a generic teen soap opera. I had skeptically prepared myself for an evening of nonstop eye-rolling, but to my surprise I was sold by the time the cold opening was expertly punctuated by the show's iconic theme song. I hounded the ladies for information on all of the characters' backstories, and by the time Seth was hanging upside down from an extension cord, re-enacting the famous Spider-Man kiss with Summer, I was utterly and completely hooked. Since then, I've become kind of an expert on the show, as well as one of its staunchest advocates.

In its first season, The OC was a cultural phenomenon that swept the nation. Never before had there been a teen show that had been as sexy and dramatic as the soaps reserved for adults, and it amassed a legion of high school (and college)-aged fans. At the same time, it was incredibly self-aware - the dialogue, especially when coming from Seth Cohen, was smart and funny. The emotional moments, too, were surprisingly poignant and well done for a show that often favored ludicrously over-the-top storylines. The second season attempted to ratchet up the drama with a lesbian romance (quite edgy for 2004), among other things, but by the third season the show was coasting on fumes. It had resorted to recycled plotlines and featured supporting characters that no one seemed to care about (or just outright hated), and most of its core audience was jumping ship.

For the fourth season, Fox decided to do something that was pretty rare for the time (but all too familiar to fans of Community) - it offered the show a half season to turn its act around. Creator Josh Schwartz and his team knew it was time to actually start trying again, and ended up making one of the most underrated seasons of television ever.

One of the biggest themes of the fourth season is not allowing oneself to be defined by a relationship. Summer Roberts started the series as an obnoxious, spoiled rich girl, who existed primarily to be the object of Seth Cohen's unrequited affections. Eventually the pair got together (of course), and Summer shed all but the most adorable of her bratty traits. Still, she was never really given much characterization outside of being Seth's girlfriend (or occasionally not being Seth's girlfriend). At the beginning of season four Summer is away at college, separated from Seth for the first time in years. Like many college freshman, she uses the opportunity to find herself - joining an environmental group, striking up a weird friendship with an activist named Che (a then-unknown Chris Pratt), and distancing herself from an increasingly worried Seth. The couple eventually gets its happy ending, but not before Summer gets a chance to prove there's more to her than just occasionally saying "Ew!"

And then there is the Final Redemption of Julie Cooper. Although her cold-hearted scheming had always made her a fan favorite, there wasn't much more to her character than getting what she wanted

and looking damn good doing it. Season four finds Julie reeling from the death of her daughter Marissa, forced to move into a trailer park, and raising her younger daughter Kaitlin. She is eventually pursued by two suitors - oil tycoon Bullet and Ryan Atwood's ex-con dad, Frank - but ends the season by rejecting them both. The final montage of the finale episode (one of the most satisfying series finales of all time, in my opinion) shows Julie sitting alongside Kaitlin in a college classroom, attending a law class taught by none other than Sandy Cohen.

Another key ingredient in season four's greatness is Taylor Townsend. Originally introduced as a psychotically ambitious rival to Marissa (a la Tracy Flick from Election), she was called up from the minors to fill the void following Marissa's death. In the fourth season,Taylor keeps her manic demeanor but her eccentricities become more charming. She is a globe-trotting, bon mot-dropping academic with an outrageous sex life, and has more chemistry with Ryan in the first few episodes than Ryan ever had with awful, awful Marissa. As a result, she quickly became just as beloved as any of the regular characters in the minds of fans who made it this far.

Perhaps my favorite thing about season four is the general lighthearted and whimsical tone of it all. The OC always had a great undercurrent of humor, and you could tell it never took itself too seriously, but in season four they were straight up having fun. Maybe it's because they knew the writing was on the wall, but the plotlines in the show's last season were original and often hilarious. Che and Bullet! Taylor reenacting 80s music videos on the Cohens' kitchen table! Kevin "Hercules" Sorbo as Ryan's dad! Steve-O! A rabbit named "Pancakes"! For Christmas, we even got a Community-esque "concept episode"! Okay there was that terrible subplot with the terrible Chris Brown, but that was probably mandated by the network.

Season four isn't ALL fun and games, though - it has its share of serious moments too, particularly an early plotline where the Cohens have to convince the perpetually badass Ryan to give up on a life of cage fighting and abandon his plans to kill Volchok the Surf Nazi in retaliation for Marissa's death.

In the end, The OC was unsurprisingly cancelled by the powers that be. But before it was sent to the farm upstate, Josh Schwartz and company gave us a funny, touching, and above all unique season of TV that perfectly wrapped up the stories of a beloved cast of characters. Season four of The OC was totally awesome.

The Americans

I can't find anyone to talk about The Americans with, and this makes me very sad. The day after an episode of Mad Men or Breaking Bad airs, you can hardly swing a dead cat without hitting someone who's dissecting every single aspect of the show. But when I ask around the office if anyone has seen The Americans, they respond as if I just asked them to discuss last night's Sean Saves the World. I just don't get it though, because The Americans combines the period-specific fetish for fashion, automobiles, and design of Mad Men with the nail-biting tension and violent action of Breaking Bad. Plus it's about Russian spies! Needless to say, it's incredibly awesome.

Philip and Elizabeth Jennings (Matthew Rhys and Keri Russell) are just your average, sexy, American couple living in the suburbs outside of Washington D.C. in 1981. By day, they run a travel agency together and raise their two children. By night, they are ass-kicking spies for the Soviet Union whose hand-to-hand combat skills are second only to their impressive array of wigs and disguises. On top of undertaking dangerous missions and maintaining the elaborate charade of their day-to-day lives, Philip and Elizabeth must come to terms with their arranged marriage. Do they really love each other, or is love a complication that spies just can't afford? Oh, and the FBI agent in charge of investigating the KGB in the Washington area just happens to be their new next-door neighbor.

It's safe to say that I have a soft spot for the early 80s. Much like baby boomers watch Mad Men and see themselves in Sally Draper, I much more identify with young Henry Jennings. The period details of The Americans might not be as distinctive as those in Mad Men - it takes place during the brief time between the trademark aesthetic weirdness of both the 70's and 80's - but you can't miss the Star Wars sheets, the giant boxy sedans, and turtlenecks, turtlenecks, turtlenecks. Which is to say nothing of the tunes - as has been noted elsewhere, The Americans' use of music rivals that of Eastbound and Down or Breaking Bad.

Speaking of Breaking Bad (again), The Americans takes pretty much everything that has come to define awesome cable dramas and improves on it. Yes, the main characters are involved in a web of lies and schemes that threatens to fall apart at any moment, but the Jennings' delicate balancing act makes the lives of Walter White and Don Draper look positively uncomplicated by comparison. The show's got plenty of sexy, sexy sex, but as graphic as it gets (and good lord, does it ever), it somehow never feels gratuitous (I'm looking at you, Game of Thrones). You want moral ambiguity? In their quest to win the Cold War for the Motherland, Philip and Elizabeth leave a trail of broken hearts and necks in their path while still making you root for these crazy kids.

There's so much more I could say about The Americans - I haven't even begun to touch on the many badass spy missions or the tragic travails of all-American FBI guy Stan Beeman - but you really just need to see it for yourself. Not only will you give it a tiny but much-needed ratings boost, but maybe I'll finally have someone to talk about season two of this awesome show with.