In his quest to replicate an idyllic "Eisenhower-era perfectness," Walsh suggested buying all the houses on a block in a new development. "I said it would be the only time the studio would make money on their investment in scenery," he says, laughing.
In the end, Colonial Street, a section of the Universal Studios lot that Walsh describes as a "Whitman's Sampler of Americana, with houses from prim and proper Victorian to post-WW II optimism," became Wisteria Lane. This picturesque TV cul-de-sac puts a cheerful facade on its neighborhood scandals.
The houses on the street have been used in such films as the 1950 James Stewart comedy "Harvey" and the 1997 "Leave It to Beaver" and for TV series including "Murder She Wrote" and "The Munsters." The structures were relocated to Colonial Street in the 1980s to become a suburban enclave with a distinctly retro feel. With paint and silk flowers to augment the existing plantings, Walsh transformed the block last used to film a TV commercial into a "Dick and Jane storybook neighborhood."
Wisteria Lane is not a street of dreams à la the McMansions of TV's "Knots Landing" in the '80s. Instead of stirring up aspirations to suburban opulence, Wisteria Lane transmits a dialed-down version of home design. It's "that comfortable, solid, nothing-can-be-so-wrong-in-this-type-of-neighborhood world," Walsh says.
The "white of Wisteria Lane" that Walsh uses is a Whisper Violet by Benjamin Moore, applied to the exterior trim of all of the houses. The manicured grounds and tempered décor — heavy on whitewashed wood, butcher block counters and roll arm seating — serve as tableaux that describe the landscape of today's middle-class design sensibility.
The interiors could easily be a room setting pulled from a furniture outlet or mail-order catalog. Though their incomes and tastes vary, the residents of Fairview (the mythical home of Wisteria Lane) might all bump into one another at Pottery Barn or an Armstrong Garden Center.
"We often feel like we're trying to make a commercial for the suburbs," Walsh says.
It is a commercial, many have noted, that could have been directed by Tim Burton or David Lynch, two masters at revealing the termites gnawing through the veneer of suburban civility. Bizarre plot twists often involve mundane household objects — a Pyrex measuring cup, a baby blanket. In the Nov. 28 episode, which topped the Nielsens, meddlesome Mrs. Huber was bludgeoned with a blender.
The way the tastefully appointed homes of Wisteria Lane are used keep the show rooted in an identifiable reality. Actual rooms were built inside houses normally used only for exterior shots, which allows characters to watch each other through their windows. "This adds to the intimacy and intrigue of 'Desperate Housewives,' " Walsh says.
Many critics have observed that the accessible look of the show also functions as a satirical comment that is particularly potent in the wake of Martha Stewart's conviction. Behind the white picket fences and freshly painted doorways, the women of Wisteria Lane are just as adept at penning blackmail notes as they are at putting up blackberry preserves. They are fluent in the language of HGTV but sometimes do dastardly deeds as if they'd never heard of "CSI."
"I have always had a fascination with the illusion of the perfect housewife," says Shannon Shapiro, a Los Angeles interior designer and a fan of "Desperate Housewives." "It completely rips that [illusion] to shreds, and it also functions as a critique of do-it-yourself consumerism that Martha Stewart kicked off, where everyone is expected to be their own designer."
The interiors accentuate "the fragility of the suburbs where cul-de-sacs were designed to confuse burglars and keep us safe," Shapiro says — yet the characters live with fear. "The fear of finding and keeping a man, the fear of not being as perfect as Sally next door. So the squeaky-clean thing is a wonderful distraction. You don't have to think about your problems. You can put a fresh coat of paint on or throw a slipcover over them."
Though Walsh created Wisteria Lane to project a unified vision of suburbia, he approached the individual interiors as a decorator would, studying the script to determine the taste and budget of the housewives. Floor plans, paint chips and images from midcentury advertising and current home décor catalogs were used as inspiration.
Set decorator Erica Rogalla is on "a constant scavenger" hunt to find the appropriate furniture and accessories. Often she faces the same frustration that many homeowners do: turnaround time. "I can't wait six weeks for something," Rogalla says, "so there's lots of trips to Target, Kmart, IKEA, Plummers and Linens 'n' Things. Whatever you can take off the shelf, we take off the shelf."
Mixed with furniture found at Universal and other prop houses, the results of Rogalla's decorating define a variety of contemporary genres as deftly as they represent each character. The style of Susan Mayer (Teri Hatcher), the recently divorced children's book illustrator who is rediscovering her femininity while raising a teen, suggests Laurel Canyon: Beadboard wainscoting and sunny pastel walls complement her artistic spirit and shabby-chic ideal.
Gabrielle Solis (Eva Longoria) is the nouveau-riche ex-model who "has been taken to the cleaners by her interior decorator," Walsh says. Her overdone living room walls are faux-finished in two shades of orange, part of a palette that coordinates with the Mediterranean and Spanish Colonial furnishings.
Like many Angelenos, she also dresses up her house with wrought-iron candlesticks and Mexican santos figures — "high-end antiques that tend toward the religioso," Rogalla says.
Bree Van De Kamp (Marcia Cross) is the perfect hostess, living in "kind of a classic Colonial American, Ethan Allen fantasy" amid traditional wall colors and upscale tailored furniture that looks more old-fashioned than old money, Walsh says.