100 books like Populuxe

Randall Rothenberg, an advertising industry reporter for The New York Times, applied the Tracy Kidder Method of journalistic immersion in a process or profession to a single advertising campaign from start to finish. He chose wisely, focusing on the then up-and-coming Weiden + Kennedy—an ad agency riding the success of Nike’s “Bo Knows” commercials. His choice of product? Subaru of America, which, at the time, was the cellar-dweller of Japanese imports. Rothenberg effortlessly captures the high-stakes tension of the ad industry while not neglecting aspects of the industry that are more smoke and mirrors than research-grounded truths.

Rothenberg is exceptional at providing windows into advertising history as his story unfolds. Throughout the span of the campaign, he unsparingly documents inspiration, idiocy (W+K assigns a creative director who hates cars), and an intimate look at how advertising works.

Examining automobiles people buy offers, if not a window into their soul, then a peek into their personal values. Ingrassia, a Wall Street Journal automotive reporter, guides us down a freeway of history and consumerism that “begat the middle class, the suburbs, shopping malls, McDonald's, Taco Bell, drive-through banking and other things.” He traces our romance with tires, horsepower, and wood-trimmed interiors through 15 models ranging from the Model T to the Prius. As stories of the Corvette, Jeep, GTO, VW Beetle and VWMicrobus, the unfairly maligned Chevy Corvair, and others roll by, Ingrassia integrates how each successive model forever changed customer desires and the often-cramped minds of auto executives. His cruise-control writing style rewards us with a smooth journey among the cars of our dreams.

Halberstam, known for big, thick books centered around big American themes, treads the same ground as Thomas Hine’s Populuxe. Instead of concentrating on refrigerators and roadsters, Halberstam tackles the political, social, economic, and cultural change in America during the 1950s—essentially, he examined the rivets in the launching pad for the American Century. Halberstam’s great gift of teasing out stories of long-overlooked contributors is put to effortless use here as we meet Kemmons Wilson, founder of the Holiday Inn hotels, the McDonald brothers, auto designer Harley Earl, ad man Rosser Reeves and Goody Pincus, developer of the birth control pill. Other, more famous connectors are duly noted—Elvis, McCarthy, MacArthur, Ozzie Nelson, Uncle Miltie—but in the end, Halberstam’s book is an inspiration (and a template) for writers of cultural history.

Bayley’s mastery of the language of design is apparent from his opening introduction to this collection of essays on American and European products. Bayley’s overview is not only essential for understanding design; it’s also a must-read for those who want to write about design. Bayley’s opinions are the gold standard, cemented by the certainty of judgment that comes so easily to British writers. He writes with reverence as well as an incisive point of view about the Eames chair, a Studebaker coupe, and dozens of other milestone products. Among the designer biographies: Wells Coates, Mies van der Rohe, and, yes, Raymond Loewy. It is the pre-eminent introduction to the field of industrial design. Once read, finding his other works (“Harley Earl,” “Ugly,” “Taste,” “Cars,” “Design A-Z,” “Sex,” “Woman as Design,” and other titles) becomes mandatory.

Sets, props, and costumes are not only part of the historical film’s allure but play an important role in the construction of the historical narrative; to ignore this element of screen history is criminal. Sprengler’s book gives “visual pastness” the attention it deserves, delving into the form and function of costumes in Far From Heaven and the cars in Sin City (to name just two examples). Sprengler approaches the topic through the lens of nostalgia, adding another layer to the examination of history on screen. As someone who is fascinated by 1950s history and the representation of the 1950s on screen, Sprengler’s focus on this decade is a bonus. 

For the past 25 years, romantic comedy has largely been considered a failed genre, out of sync with a new climate of uncertainty about intimacy and couplehood.

This book challenges that oversimplified view and shows how romance narratives are shape-shifting in the 21st century. Even in an era of heteropessimism, romantic comedy continues to be an important form, and the contributors here track its increasing openness to racial and sexual minorities it traditionally overlooked.

Popular culture is littered with new archetypes of wifehood, both enacted (the “MILF,” the “trad wife,” the “Mormon Wife”) and aspirational (“I’m Looking for a Man in Finance”). 

Leonard’s highly accessible book provides a way of thinking about this taken-for-granted category and places it in a range of critical and historical contexts. One of the most important contributions she makes is to track the emergence of the “professional wife” as a new status designation and revenue raising identity.

While there are other books on the “matrimonial industrial complex,” this one provides a really in-depth analysis of the cultural fascination with weddings, and I found it an absolutely engrossing account of phenomena ranging from royal weddings to “purity porn.” 

What comes across here is the scale of the idealized wedding as a consumerist ritual and form of deep aspirational investment. One of the most thought-provoking aspects of the book is the notion that the cultural norms around weddings and marriage have slipped out of alignment so that there is a growing gap between the celebration of getting married and the state of being in a marriage.

A wonderful evocation of many aspects of everyday life in Europe’s 2nd biggest city. Who were “the people” and where were they in the social hierarchy? This book looks at the beginnings of a consumer culture: what did ordinary families earn and what did this enable them to buy. Where and how did they live? How did working Parisians dress, what did they read, how did they spend their holidays? It’s all there!

Written long before J.D. Vance made single women an open political target, Anthea Taylor’s book propounds skepticism in regard to the frequent cliche that they are now a privileged and celebrated class.   

In fact, as she shows, this truism is part of the cultural construction of single women as a problematic population subject to evolving modes of cultural criticism and denigration. This book astutely analyzes their depiction in “chick lit,” reality tv, blogs and self-help modes. It’s smart and scholarly as well as highly readable.