By Richard YatesVIntage
The thumbnail social history of the United States, as Godfrey Hodgson (the author of America in Our Time) once phrased it to me, is as follows: agrarian population moves as soon as it can to the cities, and then consummates the process by evacuating the cities for the suburbs. More Americans now live in the suburbs than anywhere else, and more do so by choice. Anachronisms of two kinds persist in respect of this phenomenon. The first is the apparently unshakable belief of political candidates that they will sound better, and appear more authentic, if they can claim to come from a small town (something we were almost spared this year, until the chiller from Wasilla). The second is the continued stern disapproval of anything “suburban” by the strategic majority of our country’s intellectuals. The idiocy of rural life? If you must. The big city? All very well. Bohemia, or perhaps Paris or Prague? Yes indeed. The suburbs? No thank you.
The achievement of Richard Yates’s Revolutionary Road was to anatomize the ills and woes of suburbia while simultaneously satirizing those suburbanites and others who thought that they themselves were too good for the ’burbs. It is also the reason why the novel can seem, and in the literal sense is, dated. Published in 1961 and set in 1955, this psychodrama of an ambitiously named development in Connecticut (the source of Yates’s superbly misleading title) recalls us to the period that saw the publication of David Riesman’s The Lonely Crowd (1950), Sloan Wilson’s novel The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit (1955), the pop sociology of men like William H. Whyte and Vance Packard, whose critiques The Organization Man (1956) and The Hidden Persuaders (1957) made American business seem impersonal and cynical, and—if this isn’t too fanciful—Edward Albee’s Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? and Malvina Reynolds’s song “Little Boxes,” both of which made their debut in 1962. Pete Seeger had a huge success of his own with the song, which ridiculed the harmless citizens of Daly City, California, and gave us the word ticky-tacky. No less a man than Tom Lehrer was to say that it was “the most sanctimonious song ever written,” but this insight would be buried by later developments in the ’60s, when removal to the suburbs became a polite synonym for “white flight” (see the mythscape of Jeffrey Eugenides’s Detroit). When Bertrand Russell published his first short-story collection, in 1953, there was something predictable in the fact that it was titled Satan in the Suburbs and Other Stories. Hollywood has since had considerable fun with that trope, and bids fair to do so again when Revolutionary Road comes to the screen, starring the Titanic duo of Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet.
Frank and April Wheeler are the reverse of the unhappy family in Chekhov’s Cherry Orchard. They have already tasted the fruits and sweets of the big city, and qualified as urban—perhaps better say urbane—sophisticates. But you know how it is. Pregnancy comes to April a teeny bit earlier than had been anticipated (or desired), and the distressing need to earn some actual money is then imposed upon Frank, who must martyr his aestheticism to the brute requirements of “the firm.” Soon enough the days become regulated by the commute and, of course, by the needs of the children.
Even so, the lost Bohemia of their Greenwich Village period will not be denied, and before too long Frank and April are smilingly condescending to help out a local troupe called, with brilliant ominousness, the Laurel Players. They decide to build up the spirit of community theater with a production of The Petrified Forest. I shall simply say that I don’t remember ever feeling so sorry for a set of fictional characters. If Yates had one talent above all, it was for conveying the feeling of disappointment and anticlimax, heavily infused with the sort of embarrassment that amounts to humiliation. As the full horror of the first night, and the full catastrophe of April’s own performance, become apparent, Yates catches the ghastly moment by writing, “The virus of calamity, dormant and threatening all these weeks, had erupted now.”
The many phony and bogus ways in which people conceal such moments of truth from themselves and from each other give Yates his unceasing opportunities to create scenes of excruciating misery. How can people bear to suffer so much, one keeps wanting to ask, when no great cause is at stake? Here is the start of an evening of stupefying banality featuring the Wheelers and their most habitual friends, the Campbells:
“Hi!” They called to one another.
“Hi! …” “Hi! …”
This one glad syllable, borne up through the gathering twilight and redoubling back from the Wheelers’ kitchen door, was the traditional herald of an evening’s entertainment. Then came the handshakings, the stately puckered kissings, the sighs of amiable exhaustion—“Ah-h-h”; “Who-o-o”—suggesting that miles of hot sand had been traveled for the finding of this oasis.
And the whole gruesome soiree has yet to be endured! Yates spares us nothing of the boredom and futility and buried hostility that result. It’s clear that he’s no fan either of this smug housing development or of the new forms of capitalism on behalf of which its male inhabitants make their daily dash to the train. Frank’s boss is a droning old booster who talks like this:
“I’m interested in one thing, and one thing only: selling the electronic computer to the American businessman. Frank, a lot of people tend to look down on plain old-fashioned selling today, but I want to tell you something …”
A lesser writer might hold it right there, but Yates goes on to make us feel as hypnotized with boredom as Frank is, trapped at lunch with this martini-soaked Babbitt who furnishes him with a living (and who, by the way, has guessed right about the technological future).