In the introduction to The Aesthetics of Nostalgia TV: Production Design and the Boomer Era, Alex Bevan asks, “What stories do coffee tables and wallpaper tell?” (1). It is, certainly, an intriguing question. It is also one not often asked in relation to television, the study of which has commonly cleaved to considerations of narrative, genre and audience, and, with the renewal of the label “quality TV” in the late 1990s and early 2000s, issues of direction and cinematic equivalence. A number of those “quality” programmes – particularly Mad Men (AMC, 2007–15), but also Desperate Housewives (ABC, 2004–12), Masters of Sex (Showtime, 2013–16), The Americans (FX, 2013–18) and other popular shows of the era, such as Ugly Betty (ABC, 2006–10) – form the basis of Bevan's investigation here, but as the question above suggests, the focus is more novel. The Aesthetics of Nostalgia TV is concerned with “below-the-line” production; that is, the art design, costume design and prop acquisition that underpin these programmes. By turning the attention to props, sets and costumes, Bevan asks the reader to consider the ways in which stories and meaning might be inscribed across and within these artefacts.

It is, perhaps, useful to consider the book a form of excavation in plain sight, as it takes particular elements of production design that are visible on-screen and makes a case for their historical, political and aesthetic significance. Through such analysis, Don Draper's 8 mm camera, as seen in a first-season episode of Mad Men, becomes not simply a tool for recording innocuous home movies but a comment on the constructedness of the image of the suburban American family and the relationship between technology and nostalgia. Similarly, a compelling reading of Betty Suarez's colour-clashing wardrobe delves into Ugly Betty's meditations on inclusion and exclusion, as well as Betty's own negotiation of her racial, ethnic and gendered identity within the milieu of Mode's modernist office space.

The Aesthetics of Nostalgia TV blends the analysis of the production elements within these televisual texts with interviews and fieldwork, and Bevan makes a strong case for the effort, creativity and ingenuity of those working in production design. Recounting visits to Hollywood prop warehouses and tours around the Universal backlot, the author offers valuable insight into the production process, as well as highlighting some of its challenges: from prop specialists being outbid on 1960s-era ephemera on eBay to the increasing use of technology to locate, create or even digitally insert props for television. The Universal tour accompanies one of the book's most thought-provoking discussions, as Bevan explores the significance of the Desperate Housewives set. Filmed on the Colonial Street backlot, the show's iconic Wisteria Lane location is underpinned by a tangible, physical history, as Colonial Street was previously home to Leave It to Beaver (CBS/ABC, 1957–63) and The Munsters (CBS, 1964–66). Desperate Housewives thus becomes inscribed with the memories of these other fictional suburban worlds, a “haunting” (40) that persists within and beyond its frames.

This notion of haunting – revisited later in a discussion of Mad Men's slippage between past and present – sits alongside a wider consideration of nostalgia, specifically relating to the baby boomer era. The complexities and instabilities of nostalgia, and the inevitable entangling of the nostalgic past with the political present, serve to illuminate the book's extensive discussion of Mad Men, though in comparison relatively fleeting discussions of reality programming such as Channel 4's The 1900 House (1999) are less convincing and detract from the book's main thesis of “boomer nostalgia” (1). The scope is ambitious, if a little scattered at times, taking in questions of authorship, nostalgia, gender, whiteness, technology and more, and the impact of the text is undermined on occasion by unfortunate minor errors. However, this aside, the book paves the way for the overdue consideration of production designers as integral to the process of creating television.

The Aesthetics of Nostalgia TV is bookended by broader musings regarding the mantle of authorship in television, and as such contributes to increasing scepticism over the traditionally narrow definitions of the auteur, a label that has historically favoured a limited canon of white male directors and writers. It wonders whether those working below the line should be considered as authors in their own right, recognizing their contributions to the creation of visual worlds and the enriched storytelling possibilities embedded in a show's design. In shining a light on below-the-line labour and advocating for its significance, Bevan steers television criticism in a valuable and intriguing direction.