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Norman Lear, creator and developer of several popular 1970s comedies for television, recently appeared at a press conference to promote his new deluxe DVD set, released by Sony today. The 19-disc set is a rehash of previously released first seasons of TV’s All in the Family, The Jeffersons, Maude, Good Times, One Day at a Time, Sanford and Son and Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman. Their creator and developer, who was somewhat subdued at the presser, looks great and he’s still sharp. His work ages nicely, too.

Maude (1972–1978) is an exception. The strident CBS comedy starring the late Bea Arthur as Maude Findlay was always more of a character than a show. The topically feminist-themed program was a spinoff (Mr. Lear’s first) of his vaunted All in the Family (1971–1979), which was based on a British series. While Mr. Lear is liberal and the comedy has that reputation, All in the Family depicted a likable white racist—imagine such a character being introduced today—who often scored a point. Back then, a character could progress beyond idiocy and, in fact, Archie Bunker became enlightened and opened a bar in a later incarnation of the show. Mr. Lear reminds us that Archie wasn’t an irredeemable racist.

Another CBS All in the Family spinoff, The Jeffersons (1975–1985), is among the most successful shows in television. Why? I think it’s because the character George Jefferson (Sherman Hemsley) held the show together as one of America’s most persecuted minority: the businessman. Always fresh, lively and interesting, the middle class American family was supported by the dry cleaning business that Mr. Jefferson worked to make profitable and its cast of characters defied stereotypes: sassy maid Florence (Marla Gibbs), quietly rebellious Lionel (Mike Evans), and, in early seasons, mean, old Mother Jefferson (Zara Cully), besides the more widely known characters Louise Jefferson (Isabel Sanford), British Mr. Bentley (Paul Benedict) and the show’s interracial couple, Helen and Tom Willis (Roxie Roker and Franklin Cover). It was a microcosm of America, with foreigners, mixed race kids, college-bound sons, independent women and one strong-minded, self-made businessman who was happiest making money and guiltlessly enjoying the rewards. George Jefferson would not have liked Barack Obama’s economic policies.

Mr. Lear explained that hugely popular The Jeffersons was created to blunt criticism that his other CBS spinoff series, Good Times (1974–1979), portrayed the American black family as poor and unglamorous. Good Times, contrary to its title, layered on layoff after layoff for the Evans family, who lived in a government housing project on Chicago’s South Side, and they could never seem to get out of poverty. That might have been the show’s point—that housing subsidies trap the working poor in a viciously downward economic cycle—but the writers evaded deeper causes and went for laughs, saddling Jimmie Walker as J.J. with the comic relief. In hindsight, the J.J. character is the show’s saving grace. Good Times was created when its matriarch, Florida Evans (Esther Rolle), left her job as a maid for Maude.

That particular connection speaks to Norman Lear’s success. His shows were not merely a platform for the knee-jerk liberal. Black working woman Florida told white liberal housewife Maude off in an episode in which racially obsessed Maude patronized Florida unceasingly and Florida finally begged Maude to leave her alone to do her job. In another episode, one of TV’s best depictions of white liberal guilt, Florida’s replacement, who is also black, quits rather than submit to Maude’s constant racial harassment. Norman Lear created dimensional characters.

Also included on this exclusively first season collection with a disc of features: the satirical Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman (1975–1977), which was syndicated, One Day at a Time (1975–1984), and Sanford and Son (1972–1977), Mr. Lear’s only show from this collection not to air on CBS (it ran on NBC). The Los Angeles-based Sanford and Son is built around raunchy comedian Redd Foxx, though not enough credit goes to his onscreen son, played by Demond Wilson, who had the task of playing straight to his conniving old junkyard pop. With no relation to the phrase made popular in Alcoholics Anonymous (AA), One Day at a Time followed the lives of a woman (Bonnie Franklin) who divorced her husband after 17 years and moved with her two daughters back to her hometown of Indianapolis, Indiana. One Day at a Time was an example of powerfully topical television programming, with episodes about youth suicide, drugs, job loss, and prejudice against women.

All of these shows, whatever their flaws, combine realistic characterizations with topical plots and humor and any of them are more realistic than the entire slate of today’s overproduced so-called reality shows. The extras—some run longer than others, with some stars in interviews, other stars glaringly absent—are admittedly a disappointment. This highly priced, handsomely packaged collection ($ 159.95) is strictly for those who haven’t bought the original first season products…and miss seeing the intelligent and thoughtful comedy of Norman Lear.

Television programming—network or cable—is not a high priority, as most of my favorite shows have not been aired in decades and movies occupy much of my time. I do watch from time to time, usually MSNBC or Turner Classic Movies, or a specific program, such as American Idol, when a friend makes a convincing case (though I haven’t seen another Idol since Sanjaya).

Thanks to DVD, along comes Swingtown, which apparently aired on CBS and, for all I know, it may still be on the schedule. My Facebook friends, well, those with whom I’ve reconnected from grade school in the Land of Blizzards and Blagojevich, kept making reference to Swingtown, set in Chicago’s suburbs during the Seventies, a place and era I know something about. I asked Paramount for a look at the first season.

First, one, then, two episodes—and I was hooked. I’m up to number four, it keeps improving and I feel like I can’t stop watching (sort of like using Facebook). The premise of the show isn’t much at first glance—a couple of swingers entice others to join in the fun—and I’ve seen so many smarmy cable shows, such as Entourage, Queer as Folk, and that David Duchovny debacle, none of which appeal to me—I prefer Frasier, Wings and The Waltons—that I had low expectations.

Based on the first four episodes, especially the third, which is all about tearing down life’s bad wallpaper, Swingtown (no relation to the Steve Miller Band tune) is brilliantly conceived and executed. Each character in the ensemble is interesting. Scripts are economical. There is plenty of substance to savor in each episode and everything telescopes neatly into something more meaningful. Even the visual transitions—clever by themselves—are logical.

The program is best experienced from the pilot forward, unfolding its interlocking stories in layers, but there are essentially three couples: conservative Roger and Janet, who personify the Fifties—for better and worse—hedonistic Tom and Trina, who represent the godawful Sixties—and they’re tame, kids, believe me—and Bruce and Susan, who presumably symbolize the self-enlightenment Seventies. The whole cast is good but Lana Parrilla as Trina the temptress pulls the strings on Swingtown. She’s a kitten with a whip and a vocabulary and she walks away like an Underalls commercial.

Susan’s the moral center, seeking both honor and happiness here on earth. Janet’s the comic relief and her rapid-fire lines are a hoot. Husbands are less developed, of course, and Susan’s Bruce is as bland as a brown paper bag but the men are passably involving. There are a few kids, too, and they’re relatively forgotten by the self-indulgent parents to the point of danger. The show gets the essentials down pat, in both dramatic and period detail: Susan strives to integrate living by rules—Janet—and knowing when to break them—Trina—and Swingtown is honest about the era’s drug and alcohol abuse and so-called progressive education, which gets a well-deserved if implicit skewering in a character who teaches Joyce, Kierkegaard and Bob Dylan (many of us survived having teachers like this; one of mine taught Pink Floyd and John Lennon).

Swingtown doesn’t glamorize or rationalize the Seventies’ hedonism, which was real and deeply destructive, though it dramatizes the anything-goes morality with humor, candor and, in particular, sincerity—a quality today’s cynical TV wasteland distinctly lacks. Don’t watch for shock value and don’t expect middle class values to be ridiculed. Swingtown is not the cousin of South Park, unlike much if not most of what’s on TV; it’s not sneering at everything in America.

Try to tune out bad covers of overused (and unnecessary) Seventies songs, some of which weren’t even released in 1976 when the show takes place, and try to overlook Swingtown’s other flaws, including a horribly miscast actress as Susan’s high school daughter. Enjoy an intelligent TV show that rips conservative and liberal conformism alike while aiming for something better than foul-mouthed smut and pop culture jokes. So far, Swingtown is like seeing Mayberry melded with Pleasantville. Definitely worth a look.

• Buy Swingtown from Amazon.com >>