The New RepublicBlaming the 'Burbs by Adelle Waldman'Revolutionary Road,' Considered The Original Anti-Suburban Novel, Isn't Actually Anti-Suburbs--But Something Far More Devastating Than ThatPost Date Monday, December 22, 2008
The New RepublicBlaming the 'Burbs by Adelle Waldman'Revolutionary Road,' Considered The Original Anti-Suburban Novel, Isn't Actually Anti-Suburbs--But Something Far More Devastating Than ThatPost Date Monday, December 22, 2008
The novel of suburban malaise has been in fashion for as long as people have been commuting from leafy pastures just beyond the city limits. Never mind that the majority of Americans actually live in suburbs (and have therefore voted with their feet in favor of suburbia), American readers are apparently hungry for books that seek to reveal how stultifying that life really is. Rick Moody made his career with The Ice Storm, an account of a Connecticut family's expensively appointed but empty lives. Similarly, Tom Perrotta's Little Children depicts a seemingly pleasant Massachusetts town in which rage and depravity lurk behind flower boxes and picture windows, and the banality of child-rearing naturally gives rise to adultery.
Now, Revolutionary Road, Richard Yates's brilliant 1961 novel, stands poised for a comeback. Often considered the original anti-suburban novel, the book--long a staple on bookstore shelves labeled "our favorites" and "staff picks"--tells the story of an unhappy young Connecticut couple; it has just been reissued in tandem with a Hollywood adaptation, due to hit theaters the day after Christmas. The film is directed by none other than Sam Mendes, the man behind American Beauty, perhaps the apotheosis of suburban exposé.
But if Mendes's new film is to do Revolutionary Road justice, it will transcend the easy anti-suburban categorization. While Yates's depiction of suburban life is nightmarish enough to exceed the worst fears of Jane Jacobs's devotees, Revolutionary Road is far more than a complacent takedown of the 'burbs. It is in fact less an anti-suburban novel than a novel about people who blame their unhappiness on the suburbs.
Once upon a time, Frank and April Wheeler were bohemians in Greenwich Village, but one thing led to another--well, sex led to pregnancy--and Frank, who'd graduated from Columbia on the GI Bill and worked odd jobs while trying to "find" himself, finally took a "real" job at Knox Business Machines, the dullest of dull corporations, quintessential Organization Man territory.
But Frank doesn't see himself as a victim of 1950s-style pressure to conform. Taking the job was an ironic gesture. "The thing I'm most anxious to avoid," he said to a friend, "is any kind of work that can be considered 'interesting' in its own right. I want something that can't possibly touch me." Moreover, Knox was the very same corporation for which Frank's own father had toiled his whole sad, Willy Loman-like career. How rich! What better way to thumb his nose at his father and his outmoded bourgeois values than to breeze right into a higher position than his dad had ever achieved--and then treat the whole thing as a joke?
Indeed, Frank's trouble is that he doesn't do much of anything sincerely. When we first meet him, he is sitting through a disastrous amateur theater performance, in which April stars. Afterwards, he approaches her backstage:
He ... started toward her with the corners of his mouth stretched tight in a look that he hoped would be full of love and humor and compassion; what he planned to do was bend down and kiss her and say "Listen: you were wonderful." But an almost imperceptible recoil of her shoulders told him she didn't want to be touched, which left him uncertain what to with his hands, and that was when it occurred to him that "You were wonderful" might be exactly the wrong thing to say--condescending, or at the very least naïve and sentimental, and much too serious.
What he said instead was, "Well, I guess it wasn't exactly a triumph or anything, was it?" Ouch.
The remark wasn't hurtful the way it might have been if April were another woman or this, another marriage. In fact, Frank was probably not wrong to have suspected that "you were wonderful" would have grated on April's nerves. The problem is ... well, it's complicated.
Frank's love for April is real, the only thing in his life that is wholly authentic. That doesn't, however, mean it's good; it is in fact utterly poisonous both for him and for April. From the early days of their affair, April, in spite of moments of feeling something that may be, could be love--she thought he was smart, she liked the countercultural thrill of living together in a cheap, cigarette smoke-filled West Village apartment--has "held herself poised for immediate flight."
And that really galls Frank. It's not the morality of the times or the unavailability of abortion that caused the newly married couple to have their first child--and take their first tentative steps towards conventional middle-class life--but Frank's frustration with April's aloofness. She intended to induce an abortion, which enraged Frank even though "the idea [of ending the pregnancy], God knew, was more than a little attractive." But April's unwillingness to bear his child seemed to bespeak an intolerable lack of love. He just wanted her not to be so indifferent--to him:
"You do this--you do this and I swear to god I'll--"
"Oh, you'll what? You'll leave me. What's that supposed to be, a threat or a promise?"
Feeling threatened, Frank did what was easy, natural--and despicable--he took up the "moral position," as if that were the true reason for his objection. And it worked. Frank convinced April to have a baby she didn't want, without having ever considered her feelings in any light other than how they reflected on him.
What is so unique here is that Yates isn't seduced by his characters' emotions, no matter how earnestly experienced; he lays bare the roiling pools of vanity and narcissism that underlie them. While Frank is the nicer of the two--by conventional standards, at least--it's no wonder that April feels revulsion at his "precious moral maxims" and his "'love' and ... mealy-mouthed little--." It's hard for her to articulate, but the reader has no trouble understanding what she means. Meanwhile, Frank, fearful of her flaring temper yet resentful of her power over him, catalogs her flaws--the widening hips, how certain facial expressions make her look old--but to no avail. No matter how much he wants to, Frank can't talk himself out of the absolute stranglehold April has on his sense of self--that is, his great and abiding love for her.
No comments:
Post a Comment