At least, that's the state of Frank and April's marriage at the beginning of the book, when things are going comparatively well.
Then April does something that really terrifies Frank, even more than the threat of her temper.
She takes his denunciations of "these damn little suburban types" and his diatribes about "Conformity, or the Suburbs, or Madison Avenue, or American Society Today" at face value. She decides that they should move to France, where she will get a secretarial job and Frank can find himself. They'll finally be free from the banal routine that just has to be the source of their unhappiness.
It has to be, hasn't it? The picture Yates paints of suburbia is unremittingly bleak. Frank and April's world, with its houses that look "as foolishly misplaced as a great many bright new toys that have been left outside overnight," is bad, but even more depressing are the Wheelers' attempts to make their existence congenial: the amateur theater endeavor, for example, so paltry, so chintzy--and so small in light of all that is wrong. Even less likely to yield real relief are their only friends, the fawning, insipid Campbells, who offer little but meaningless distraction and the ignoble pleasure of being looked up to. It's a hellish life, or it should be. It certainly is for April, anyway. While Frank drones on with stock talk about Conformity and other clichéd generalities, April's acidic observations have Dorothy Parker-like precision. "I know these damn artsy-crafty things," she said of the theater group initially, before she got talked into participating. "There'll be of a woman with blue hair and wooden beads who met Max Reinhardt once ... and seven girls with bad complexions."
April's unhappiness is real, but Yates, unlike a more sentimental author, doesn't applaud her daring--her willingness to buck convention and propose escape. Instead, he exposes the foolishness and the self-delusion behind her Paris plan. In a moment of particularly abject misery, April decides that "it"--the whole dreary shebang of suburban family life--is her fault. "I put the whole burden ...on you," she says to Frank. "It was like saying if you want this baby, it's going to be All Your Responsibility. You're going to have to turn yourself inside out to provide for us. You'll have to give up any idea of being anything in the world but a father." It sounds plausible enough, even if it has little bearing on the messier, more complicated truth. But Yates portrays the glee with which April latched onto her new analysis as part and parcel of the human tendency to self-dramatize: "Her whole day had been a heroic build up for this moment of self-abasement."
Nor does Yates let us forget that April's plan is riddled with holes, something even the affable drunkard who shares a cubicle with Frank can see. (As he says to Frank over lunch, "Assuming there is a true vocation lurking in wait for you, don't you think you'd be as apt to discover it here as there?") It also rests on the assumption that Frank really is cut out for a different kind of life. But whatever it may have been when she met him, Frank's anti-suburban talk has by this time become a mere gesture, a way of making himself feel sophisticated and being once more in April's eyes "the most interesting person [she's] ever met." Frank is not so much lying as he is being insincere. It's as Lionel Trilling observed about Mansfield Park's vivacious Mary Crawford: She is "impersonat[ing] the woman she thinks she ought to be." Likewise, Frank is pretending to be the nonconformist he--and April--want him to be.
The truth is Frank is relatively content in Connecticut. He likes the idea of family life; he likes prattling on to the Campbells; there are aspects of his job that he finds pleasant and even gratifying. Besides he's not sure he has it in him to do much else other than work at Knox. The vision that comes to mind as April waxes about the virtues of her European plan:
[April] coming from a day a the office--wearing a Parisian tailored suit, briskly pulling off her gloves--coming home and finding him hunched in an egg-stained bathrobe, on an unmade bed, picking his nose.
This, not the supposedly "hopeless emptiness" of middle-class American life, is what really terrifies Frank Wheeler.
But April, having convinced herself that her misery is merely a function of geography, is rapturous about France. And Frank gives in. After all, how much more tantalizing is it to join in April's euphoric excitement and her breathy account of him as the stifled genius than it is to feel like the dreary mediocrity whose touch she recoils from.
Rarely in literature has there been a second honeymoon quite so chillingly portrayed as the one the Wheelers embark upon after they decide to move to France--that is, decide that they will both embrace the same flattering fantasy of themselves. As unromantic as Emma Bovary's affairs, it's a sort of mutually masturbatory arrangement that, underneath all the murmured "darlings" and doors held open and nights of passion, is as unstable and as devoid of real tenderness as any described in Game Theory. Because as we know, and Frank only half-suspects, he is more interested in enjoying April's newly reinstated tenderness and admiration than in going to France.
How this all plays out makes for a deeply disquieting account of modern dysfunction. Not that Revolutionary Road is perfect: It poises uneasily on the brink of satire, wanting to its detriment to have it both ways--the psychological sophistication of realism and the mercilessness of satire, granting nothing to its characters that isn't either corrosive or affect. It is, undoubtedly, a brutal book.
Still, it's a great deal bigger and more ambitious than most of the anti-suburban novels it's so often lumped with. In the vein of many a great 20th century novel, Revolutionary Road turns the towering Victorian novels on their heads. Without itself being morally obtuse, it sets up a scenario in which the moral questions that preoccupied those authors are largely beside the point. How much of life, Revolutionary Road reminds us, defies the kind of analysis that parcels out responsibility and blame--and how terrible the realization of that is, because if goodness, or at least its attempt, has so little bearing on happiness, then what can any of us do?
Adelle Waldman is working on a novel called The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P.
© The New Republic 2008
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