This anthology, largely consisting of close readings of Mad Men, explores its mass of literary references and cultural artefacts. But even more interesting than the series itself is the way that its aesthetic has come to dominate the worlds of advertising, fashion, and print media. As Gary R. Edgerton points out, the show’s ‘imprint is evident throughout contemporary culture’, especially in terms of marketing trends. Clearly, many viewers and consumers regard the pre-civil rights era as a glamorous and spacious place to inhabit. They are attracted to the fantasy of being as stylishly repressed as Draper’s wife Betty, or as decorative as the secretary Joan Holloway.

This is more than a fascination with the design elements of a decade. It is curious that the comfort television of our time should involve the depiction of ideal servants, clear gender lines, and no black characters. What is behind this desire to relive an airless and constricting past?

It is surprising that the majority of these essays do not address the conflict between Mad Men’s purported critique of American history and its appealing presentation of a segregated society. Almost all of the contributors treat the show as an unambiguous satire of 1960s Manhattan. Jeremy G. Butler does this most persuasively in his account of how Mad Men achieves its distinctive look of flatness by foregrounding borders, creating a stifling atmosphere. He asserts that these visual techniques present history in unflattering terms, demonstrating that Mad Men has ‘little patience with nostalgia’. But could it not be argued that the show romanticises the look of oppression, so that such severe linearity comes across as a nifty design feature – one that the viewer embraces?

Several articles expand on the show’s numerous allusions to literature. Each episode contains so many artistic references that the show can seem like a maze of clues designed by creator Matthew Weiner. Mad Men is stuffed with cultural quotations: characters are named after Walt Whitman, Suzanne Farrell, Alfred Kinsey. But Weiner, unlike television auteur Joss Whedon, flags his references very obviously. In Whedon’s Dollhouse, familiar names come across as half-remembered echoes of a distant past; however, in Weiner, the use of name-checking appears to be fairly superficial rather than mysterious. As an essay by Mimi White suggests, Mad Men’s primary characteristic is knowingness, and its stream of cultural references is a way of addressing its savvy consumer audience.

It is hard to think of a series which has been so easily appropriated by advertising. By limiting itself mostly to textual readings and production histories, this anthology misses the opportunity to discuss the show’s complicated attitude to modern living, especially when it comes to the seductive presentation of housewives and secretaries. However, White’s essay draws attention to the careful way in which Mad Men moves between ‘relishing/disdaining the era in which it is set’, and how the balance tips over into pure relish when it comes to gender. White convincingly argues that, while Draper’s limitations make him fascinating, the women remain trapped in their cartoonish images.

Despite some plotlines concerning female professionals, the real dynamic of the show is the elegant misogyny of the corporate sphere. The admen are constantly subjecting women to tart one-liners about weight and intelligence. On the receiving end of these barbs, the victims look stricken and ugly, dogged in the face of such smooth talk. It is this kind of cruelty – brilliant, articulate, unassailable – which, along with its impeccable art direction, gives the show its patina of high style.

In an article titled ‘If It’s Too Easy, Then Usually There’s Something Wrong’, Mad Men’s executive producer discusses his ‘artfully photographed show’, where anything ‘in front of the camera should be beautiful to look at’. Yet not everything onscreen is beautiful, and the exceptions are always significant. There is something odd about a show so focused on image that happily hands its visual power to the most insular characters, such as Betty. A discontented ex-model, Betty is waspish about other women, but the show seems to find her unhappiness epic rather than commonplace. While the script claims to be interested in the female executive Peggy, this character is fumbling and mousy in her interaction with others, and excruciating to watch in romantic encounters. In visual terms, Peggy has no hold compared with the self-pitying but much more streamlined Betty: a beautiful woman whose tears move everyone, including Carla, the black housekeeper she mistreats, especially in the fourth series.

Overall, this collection of articles tends to laud the vision of Mad Men’s writers, rather than to dissect the complex, diabolical games the series plays with race and sex. A perceptive essay by Allison Perlman does suggest that Mad Men’s self-absorbed characters and ‘atmospheric treatment of racism’ may be a commentary on endemic prejudice. But as the series heads into the mid-1960s, the lack of African-American characters will become ahistorical. In the online magazine Slate, Latoya Peterson has proposed that the real challenge for Mad Men will come as it moves into the civil rights era, and that if it ‘ignores race again, then it is truly written by cowards’.

Perhaps the scriptwriters are reluctant to nudge their characters, not only towards new concepts but out of their signature fashions. We know that Draper’s predicament would not be as soulful or moving if his appearance was less than archetypal – his torso is compared to the body of a Cadillac – nor would a loosened Betty be of any emotional interest. It will be more difficult for Mad Men to find a look which corresponds to a changing awareness than to continue coasting on its deluxe period style. But when it’s too easy, there is usually something wrong.