Reconciling Queer Disappearance Ethereal Queer: Television, Historicity, Desire, by Amy Villarejo. Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2014. 216 pages. $84.95 cloth, $23.95 paperback.Representation has for some been bad object of theory: entity that contains a slew of anxieties surrounding continuance, crystallization, and confirmation of as a generic code, as an intelligible sign that can be deployed (paradoxically) as an antigrammar, as a discipline that cannot exist. Queer is vestibule for nothing and everything, and thus much of work on media that has arisen out of theory has invested less political energy in potentials of identity than its inevitable limitations and foreclosures. Media figured queerly is intangible, contingent, and prone to obsolescence, its absence as such placed affectively in line (ironically, straightly) with negative, unproductive, fleeting, relationally obscure. The necessity to contest normalizing principles of identification (especially for folks outside mainstream reach) becomes its own normalizing principle,1 a dogmatic restructuring wherein must strive for a status of nonexistence, of failure, of semiascetic removal from cultural life, often in a manner that arguably reinforces masculinist models of critique predicated on distanciation, isolation, and destruction. Queer is separate from intimacy, is outside social affirmation, and must constantly eulogize its own death.At its most provocative, Amy Villarejo's Ethereal Queer functions as a renegotiation of these terms of engagement. Her book is simultaneously a phenomenology of televisual signals as nonobjects and a reminder that television2 is a crucible for identity's persistence, what she calls the modern implantation of gendered and sexualized social time (7). Villarejo's thesis thus requires a genealogical assertion of presence across many historical periods,3 but she is careful to delineate between relational queerness (her preferred mode) and ontological queerness of either oppositional or incorporative varieties. She is, for instance, suspicious of progressive argument that twenty-first-century television is somehow queer than its past iterations simply by fact that characters are permitted to be out in a self-identified manner, and she consistently critiques facile mimeticism of GLAAD enumerative polls. However, she is equally unwilling to abandon representation altogether and is particularly attentive to means through which pop media express desire for commonality, less as a definitive affirmation and more as a form (like analogue signals) that never translates perfectly into a substantiated object. In this sense, Villarejo urges media scholars to turn their attention back toward television itself,4 examining its fundamental ephemerality and consequences this poses for its figuration as a sexual hermeneutic or, perhaps more important in her terms, an apparatus that encloses public, retrospective temporality. Thus, her proposal of as an ethereal figure, simultaneously present and absent, elucidates both her political commitment to ambivalence and her intervention into television studies: in particular a careful, empathetic parsing of representations deemed retrograde or insufficiently complex.Due to fact that Villarejo is invested in this sort of macrocriticism, it can sometimes feel as though her conceptual scope is too wide, producing excursions that are as oblique as they are illuminating. The best of these occurs in chapter 3, titled Television Ate My Family, wherein a careful examination of Lance Loud's repeated coming outs on An American Family is proceeded by a close analysis of All in Family's Christmas-centric Edith's Crisis of Faith. The episode concerns emotional fallout of family friend (and drag queen) Beverly's murder, whereas Villarejo's privileged moment in Loud saga details an attempt (partially recognized) at transgenerational enunciation between a distanced mother and her (purposefully) presentational son. …