The FX series The Americans follows two Soviet spies posing as a suburban American couple in the 1980s. Set at the height of the Cold War, the show’s gripping narrative relies heavily on atmospheric realism to transport viewers into an era of secrecy, surveillance, and strained diplomacy. That sense of immersion didn’t only come from the writing or performances — it stemmed from the locations chosen to represent Washington, D.C., and other key cities.
Authenticity played a pivotal role in the production. The creators didn’t simply recreate a version of 1980s America; they reconstructed the texture of everyday life in Cold War suburbia. Much of that authenticity came not from Washington, D.C. itself, but from American cities like New York, which doubled for multiple locales throughout the series. The diversity of New York’s architecture, neighborhood layouts, and infrastructure proved central in building a believable world behind enemy lines.
In The Americans, the world revolves around two Soviet spies posing as a married American couple in a suburban D.C. neighborhood. However, step outside their fictional Northern Virginia home, and you're not in the nation’s capital—you're deep in the boroughs of New York City. The visual architecture of the show tells one story, but the maps tell another.
Producers selected New York as the primary filming backdrop, despite the script's clear District of Columbia setting. Several factors shaped that decision, but two stood above the rest—union regulations and tax incentives. New York State offers one of the most aggressive film and television production tax credits in the U.S., with a base credit of 25% on qualified production costs and an additional 10% if filming occurs outside the New York City metro zone, according to the New York State Governor’s Office of Motion Picture and Television Development.
Logistics mattered, too. The network behind the series, FX, already had established infrastructure in and around New York for other productions. By keeping production local, the crew could reuse sets, scout familiar neighborhoods, and adapt flexibly to script demands without constant relocation or extended permitting wait times. These efficiencies made New York a practical choice—and one that offered more stylistic pliability than D.C.’s modernized streets might allow.
New York contributed more than just streets and storefronts—it delivered a visual mood steeped in Cold War tension. Brick facades, brownstone lines, subway corridors, and industrial zones rendered an urban setting that felt both distinctly American and subtly foreign. This ambiguity underscored the series’ central theme of appearances versus reality.
Weathered textures and subdued lighting found readily in NYC neighborhoods created visual continuity with 1980s Soviet environments—without a single frame shot in Eastern Europe. Snow-dappled sidewalks in Yonkers stood in for D.C. suburbs. Brooklyn warehouses transformed into Eastern Bloc embassies. With the right framing, the illusion held perfectly.
Geography became storytelling. Viewers never toured the real Washington, D.C.—but in the carefully scouted corners of New York, they were never meant to notice the difference.
Brooklyn served as the production nucleus for The Americans throughout its six-season run. The borough offered a versatile urban canvas that could convincingly double as Cold War-era Washington, D.C. Several factors drove the decision to center filming here. Financially, the New York State Film Production Tax Credit delivered up to 30% savings on qualified expenditures—a considerable incentive for the show’s producers. Logistically, proximity to crew talent, studio facilities, and the production headquarters simplified day-to-day operations. Creatively, Brooklyn provided a range of architectural styles that matched the narrative’s shifting landscape—from suburbia to shadowy Soviet rendezvous points.
Two standout neighborhoods repeatedly surfaced on screen: Ditmas Park and Greenpoint. In Ditmas Park, the tree-lined streets and early 20th-century Victorians shaped the fictional Jennings household’s exterior. These homes, primarily built between 1902 and 1914, presented ideal stand-ins for D.C.’s quiet residential zones. The show used curbside shots and exterior tracking sequences throughout what, in reality, is a picturesque corner of Flatbush.
Greenpoint, on the other hand, handled a different visual job. Its warehouse-lined blocks and mixed-use buildings substituted for government buildings, safe houses, and various enigmatic urban locales. This neighborhood’s industrial character allowed set designers to construct facades that evoked intelligence field offices and covert operational fronts.
Instead of scouting in actual Maryland or Virginia suburbs, the production leaned heavily on Brooklyn’s historic housing stock. The exterior of the Jennings home at 922 Ocean Avenue in Ditmas Park never appeared modified for the screen—its authenticity lay in its original siding, wood detailing, and brick chimney lines. Viewers consistently saw period-authentic cars parked along the street, which—paired with weathered picket fences and analog street fixtures—sold the full illusion.
These design decisions weren’t based on aesthetic guesswork. Location scouts and the production design team referenced suburban street grids and photo archives from Reagan-era D.C. metro regions. Where necessary, post-production erased anachronistic elements like satellite dishes or modern signage, but rarely did the show need digital trickery. Brooklyn’s preserved streetscapes supplied most of the realism organically.
Despite its deep ties to Brooklyn, The Americans vividly recreated the feel of Reagan-era Washington, D.C. without ever leaving New York. Production regularly tapped into neighborhoods across Brooklyn, Queens, and Manhattan to simulate the nation’s capital. In particular, areas like Ditmas Park—with its early 20th-century homes and tree-lined avenues—served as a convincing substitute for the residential streets of Northwest D.C.
Forest Hills in Queens, known for Tudor-style homes and gently curving streets, provided a retro middle-class suburban backdrop that aligned with the show’s 1980s aesthetic. Crews prioritized locations free from modern infrastructure—like satellite dishes or LED signage—to preserve historical authenticity on camera.
Filming for Washington’s urban core required a different approach. In downtown Manhattan, sections of Wall Street, with its neoclassical facades, doubled as government corridors. The Broad Street area, especially near the Federal Hall National Memorial, offered granite columns and stone steps that mirrored the federal architecture dominant in D.C.
Back alleys and underpasses around Long Island City and DUMBO provided atmospheric locations for secret meetings, car swaps, and surveillance sequences—functioning as believable extensions of the intelligence-charged streets of D.C. Their grayscale tones, fire escapes, and narrow brick corridors maintained the cold, covert mood the series required.
Rather than rely on digital effects, the production leaned on physical architecture already present across New York to impersonate D.C.’s landmarks. Select locations were used repeatedly to evoke the presence of real-world government buildings. For example:
Even the exteriors of churches and Washington Square Park found second lives as background ambiance for scenes set in D.C.’s shifting political sphere. Creative camera angles, set dressing, and tight framing eliminated tell-tale NYC cues while suggesting plausible East Coast governmental settings.
To evoke the restrained, calculating atmosphere of the Cold War, location scouts prioritized buildings and spaces that already whispered secrets. Every alley, avenue, and apartment chosen for The Americans carried a specific intention: to resonate with the visual paranoia of the early 1980s. Brick facades with peeling paint, mid-century government buildings, vacant lots flanked by aging warehouses—these weren’t just structures, they were narrative devices.
Scouts combed through Brooklyn, Queens, and the Bronx, hunting for addresses that had resisted gentrification. Buildings with blunt, square silhouettes and unadorned utilitarian design—minimalist, flat, and stubbornly gray—fit the bill. Industrial sites with corrugated metal, exposed ducts, and stark fluorescent interiors became stand-ins for KGB safe houses and FBI field offices.
The show's visual language leaned heavily on existing architecture that unintentionally echoed Soviet urban planning. The production team favored locations with International Style facades, concrete-heavy exteriors, and postwar municipal structures, many of which had been erected during New York's urban expansion in the mid-twentieth century. These backdrops naturally conveyed the ideological sterility of communist Eastern Europe and allowed scenes to slide seamlessly from suburban Americana to covert Moscow rendezvous without leaving city limits.
One standout example: an unassuming office block in Long Island City, used repeatedly as a substitute for Soviet government interiors. Even without elaborate set dressing, its drab linoleum floors, single-pane glass windows, and muted beige walls communicated layers of cold efficiency and bureaucratic control. No neon, no chrome—just space carved out by suspicion and strategy.
The show didn’t beautify the urban landscape; it accepted and amplified the rough edges. Cracks in the sidewalk, rusted signage, overgrown parking lots—these elements weren’t cleaned up in post-production. Instead, they became motifs that mirrored the characters’ inner corrosion. Decaying tenements stood in for ideological rot, while dimly lit subway corridors created immediate tension with no dialogue required.
Each location did more than house a scene—it amplified psychological unease. The lack of modernity wasn’t accidental; it was the canvas on which the Cold War’s gray zone played out.
The production team behind The Americans reconstructed the tension of 1980s espionage by meticulously designing physical spaces that mirrored both Soviet and American environments. This duality shaped the series’ visual identity. Authenticity did not depend on exotic locations alone—it came from controlled environments crafted to reflect intricate geopolitical contrasts.
Designers used reference materials including vintage photographs, government-issue furnishings, and Cold War-era color palettes to draw sharp distinctions between East and West. Soviet interiors featured muted tones, utilitarian textures, and symbols of ideological propaganda, while American settings leaned on suburban mid-century decor and consumerist details. Both aesthetics were grounded in historically verified décor and spatial design trends from the 1970s and 1980s.
Rather than relying solely on existing interiors, the production team built many of the key locations from scratch on sound stages across Brooklyn and Queens. These included:
Many interiors were modular, allowing for quick transformations. A single apartment set could become a KGB briefing room one day and an FBI stakeout zone the next, thanks to movable walls and redressed props.
Production spared no effort replicating everyday detail. Every prop, costume, and fabric underwent scrutiny. Designers sourced real Soviet-era newspapers, wiring diagrams, and military uniforms from vintage sellers, collector archives, and prop houses.
Wardrobe teams dressed Philip and Elizabeth Jennings in clothing that obeyed strict period authenticity—shoulder pads, earth tones, clashing patterns, and Cold War camouflage. Beyond attire, even kitchen appliances and shopping bags reflected brand histories. A grocery scene might feature packaging from 1981 Safeway products, cross-verified through print ads and product catalogs from that year.
The final product never shouted its truth—it whispered it. Each scene offered a tapestry of micro-authenticities that together created a world viewers could believe in without exposition. That invisible precision bridged time, pulled audiences backward, and made The Americans feel not just filmed—but lived.
The production of The Americans hinged on a tight-knit alliance of creative professionals deeply rooted in New York's vibrant television industry. The show’s creators worked closely with local studio facilities such as Eastern Effects and Silvercup Studios, both known for housing high-profile TV dramas. These studios provided the soundstage infrastructure for interior sets, including the Jennings' basement and various government office replicas.
The collaboration extended far beyond location logistics. Art directors, set decorators, costume designers, and props specialists combined efforts to accurately recreate the looks and textures of early 1980s America. Under showrunner Joe Weisberg and executive producer Joel Fields, this team leaned on detailed historical research and decades of collective experience in period drama production.
Shooting in New York meant navigating one of the busiest urban environments on earth. Filming took place across neighborhoods in Brooklyn, Queens, and occasionally Manhattan. To maintain flow, the team structured a shooting schedule around both consistency and flexibility. Indoor studio shoots were planned around the weather and daylight, while outdoor scenes required fast-paced shooting with strategically timed setups.
Crew members became adept at transforming common street corners and domestic buildings into Cold War-era backdrops, often working at odd hours to minimize disruptions. Flexibility remained key—rain, construction noise, or peak pedestrian traffic could prompt last-minute adjustments.
From the actors to the boom operators, the mood on set reflected the psychological intensity of the content. Lead actors Keri Russell and Matthew Rhys immersed themselves in long dialogue takes, rehearsed subtle gestures, and maintained emotional tension across drawn-out scenes designed to replicate real espionage pressure.
Wardrobe fittings, weapon handling sessions, and dialect coaching were woven into the daily tapestry of production. The makeup department prepared bruises, cuts, and aging prosthetics with high precision, especially for undercover disguises. The blocking of scenes considered both camera framing and period realism—phones and papers had to appear era-appropriate down to model numbers and typography.
Even craft services supported the tone: cast and crew recall an environment that swapped small talk for script analysis, with directors often referencing Cold War case files between takes. The collective focus on narrative clarity and subtlety never wavered.
Every frame of The Americans exudes tight craftsmanship, a feat made possible by the deep bench of production pros based in New York City. From gaffers who’ve worked Broadway stages to location scouts fluent in borough backstreets, the local crew shaped the atmosphere and rhythm of the series. Their adaptability, honed on soundstages from Astoria to Greenpoint, matched the show’s shifting tone between domestic drama and Cold War tension.
Unlike productions that import crews, The Americans employed unionized professionals rooted in the city’s audiovisual tradition. Members of IATSE Local 52 (studio mechanics), Local 600 (camera operators), and Local 829 (scenic artists and costume designers) made up the backbone of day-to-day operations. These crews delivered consistently under shifting demands—coordinating overnight shoots in winter, replicating snow-covered Moscow streets, and lighting cramped Brooklyn apartments to feel like D.C. intelligence safe houses.
Series leads Keri Russell and Matthew Rhys anchored the performance load, but the ecosystem of supporting talent came straight out of the New York theater and television pool. Casting directors mined Off-Broadway stages and rehearsal studios for trained actors, many of whom portrayed recurring FBI agents, Soviet informants, and suburban neighbors with uncanny realism. Performers from institutions such as The Juilliard School and the Neighborhood Playhouse added layered nuance to single-episode roles.
Extras, too, played a critical part. Walk-ons were drawn from the city’s diverse and professional pool of background actors, many of whom brought prior experience from shows like Law & Order or Boardwalk Empire. Their presence turned New York landmarks into believable cold-war meeting spots and FBI corridors brimming with tension.
Successful execution of The Americans involved more than talent—it required seamless collaboration across a web of local partners. Coordinators worked with dozens of vendors in all five boroughs, sourcing everything from era-specific household items to Russian-language signage. Scenic artists collaborated with antique suppliers in Midtown and fabric shops in the Fashion District to maintain period-correct aesthetic down to the smallest detail.
Unions ensured fair labor practices and workflow continuity, while also enabling access to vetted talent. Artisans produced bespoke elements in Bushwick studios, prop masters pulled from The Bronx’s specialty archives, and Queens-based caterers fed crews during pre-dawn call times. Across departments—lighting, grip, wardrobe, transportation—the series became a model for integrated production practice in the city.
What happens when talent, infrastructure, and storytelling align on a city-wide scale? The Americans provided that answer across six seasons.
The tension in The Americans hits hardest when setting and story fold into each other. New York, standing in for Washington, D.C., carried that weight silently—and convincingly. Behind many of the show's unforgettable moments lie very real, very grounded places scattered across the city's boroughs.
Elizabeth and Philip Jennings spent countless hours observing targets from the front seats of their car. These prolonged silences weren't left to function on atmosphere alone—the actual backdrop played a part. Several of those stakeout scenes were staged on side streets in Queens, particularly around Astoria and Long Island City. The unpolished residential architecture, curbside parked sedans, and graffiti-marked alleyways gave the espionage a lived-in honesty that sterile backlots could not.
Safehouses, a staple of spy fiction, usually appear sterile and stylized. In The Americans, production leaned the other way. Many of the safehouse interiors were filmed inside actual apartments across Brooklyn and Manhattan. Their slightly outdated furnishings and authentic 1980s patina—a mix of bold-patterned wallpaper, rotary phones, and overhead lighting—brought an unmistakable realism that extended beyond visual storytelling. The use of natural ambient sound within these real spaces further grounded the tension of covert meetings and hurried escapes.
While ostensibly in Washington, D.C., the backdrop for FBI Agent Stan Beeman's office drama was closer to home for New York commuters. The interiors of FBI headquarters were filmed inside a functioning office building in Downtown Brooklyn. The space offered the clean lines and modular design associated with federal offices in the 1980s, giving the illusion of bureaucratic normalcy. Management offices were redressed to reflect the Reagan-era decor, while exterior shots were intentionally limited, maintaining the illusion of D.C.
Each borough contributed to the show's constant undercurrent of unease. Shadowed underpasses, snow-laced sidewalks, Soviet-style brutalist architecture, and blinking neon diners all underscored the psychological strain of double lives. The city’s ambient grit—its density, its relentlessness—accentuated the emotional stakes. Even scenes without dialogue carried narrative weight, shaped by the muted chaos of background pedestrians, distant sirens, and outdated street landmarks.
Which moment from the show stayed with you the longest? Chances are, the pavement it played out on still exists somewhere in New York, worn in the same way, waiting quietly behind a camera crew.
Every exterior scene of The Americans filmed on New York streets began with a permit. The NYC Mayor’s Office of Media and Entertainment (MOME) granted these authorizations, acting as the central conduit between production and public infrastructure. From mid-2010s to its final season in 2018, the show requested dozens of location permits, particularly in Brooklyn, Queens, and Manhattan. MOME's streamlined digital application system allowed the production team to schedule shoots, file required paperwork, and receive approvals with relative speed—often within 48 to 72 hours.
The office also facilitated support from the NYPD Movie and TV Unit, which managed street closures, traffic redirection, and public safety. This coordination allowed the show to shoot on major avenues and quiet residential blocks alike without extended disruption or legal conflict.
Filming in populated neighborhoods required extensive coordination with locals. Advance notice flyers were distributed door-to-door, posted on street poles, and translated into multiple languages in diverse communities like Washington Heights and Flatbush. Resident notification typically occurred 48 hours before equipment trucks arrived.
On set, location managers and community liaison officers acted as bridges between crew and residents. When streets were used for car chases or period exteriors, the team ensured minimal interruption—reopening roads promptly, avoiding late-night rigging, and offering relocation services for temporarily displaced parked vehicles.
This built trust with neighborhood associations and avoided production delays due to community pushback. According to 2016 data from MOME's Film Office Reports, over 90% of external shoots for network television productions proceeded without resident complaint filings, including those for The Americans.
New York City’s infrastructure offers inherent production advantages. Access to studio space within minutes of exterior locations reduced setup time. The proximity of staging lots, costume rental warehouses, and historic prop suppliers ensured that the art department never lacked Cold War-era detail.
While the streets doubled for embassies and Capitol Hill alleys, the real mechanics behind them relied on layers of bureaucracy, cooperation, and precision planning—the hidden architecture beneath every frame.
New York didn’t just house the production of The Americans; it performed in it. Across six seasons, the city convincingly pulled double duty—standing in for 1980s suburban Virginia streets, quiet D.C. office corridors, and even covert Soviet meeting spots. All while grounding the narrative with a realism rarely matched in spy dramas. Every location decision, from Brooklyn brownstones to downtown alleyways, shaped the show's visual language and Cold War realism.
New York's architectural diversity provided a flexible canvas. Post-war government buildings in lower Manhattan easily passed for D.C.-era stone and steel. Residential streets in Ditmas Park did more than emulate Falls Church, Virginia—they embodied it, block by block. Through these spaces, the city didn’t whisper espionage; it broadcasted it.
The production team leaned into this duality. With purpose-built sets rising inside Brooklyn soundstages and exterior scenes unfolding across five boroughs, the physical city formed a silent, constant counterpoint to the show's tension. Landscapes didn't just host the drama—they heightened it. A nondescript Queens roadside becomes a drop site. A Park Slope diner transforms into a KGB rendezvous point.
As a result, New York became more than a passive backdrop—it grew into a character with shape, pace, and mood. Fans tuning in for the Jennings family's double life also absorbed traffic sounds along Flatbush Avenue or caught a glimpse of a Crown Heights façade doubling as FBI headquarters.
Watch an episode now and linger on the context. Recognize the terrain. Trace a bench where Stan once brooded. Pinpoint a stoop where Elizabeth stepped into her disguise. These aren’t just filming locations—they're fragments of the storytelling machinery, embedded with narrative meaning.
The next time you revisit the series, look beyond the performances and story arcs. Let your attention follow the stoic subway entrances, the shadowy overpasses, or the way evening light glosses over an East River skyline. You're watching New York not just do its job, but take a bow as one of The Americans’ most essential collaborators.
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