Bergsonian Critique

In the midst of egotism, self-denial, social conformism, and self-made delusions that seem to pervade a large sum of Richard Yates’ Revolutionary Road, the voice of reason seems to lose its echo among all the society’s hypocrisy. Yet, Yates’ commentary manages to be carried out by his characters, even though their selfish acts often overlap their criticism of the American’s suburbia of the 1950s. Frank and April Wheelers, the young and frustrated couple regrettably harbors little affection for each other just as much they dislike their hollowed existence in the estates of Revolution Road. They recognize that their youth is withering away on meaningless and unfulfilling prospects that rarely provide incentive to incite self-worth.

Indeed, Frank’s work in the city is, as he admits, “the dullest job you can possibly imagine,” and April, with too little to do, embarrassingly and publicly fails as an actress in a local theater group. On top of it all, the Wheelers drink too much, are bored rigid by their neighbors, feel hazily anxious of being cultural clichés, and as a consequence view their future as indistinct but unpromising.

It is here, in his sheltered montage of 1950s America that Yates unmasks the ideal of the American pioneering spirit as a vast, empty promise, and this tells every crushed ambition of the Wheelers’ life together and the dynamics of their marriage. Raised to believe that they can achieve any kind of life they want, the prosperity and contentment on offer is a burden rather than a reward. It enchains and confounds them and is not the kind of freedom that they always desire.

Such revelation is even uttered by Frank Wheeler himself in the first part of the novel during an expected visitation and gathering from their next-door neighbors, Shepard and Mary Campbell, a minor though somewhat imperative characters. In a well-acted monologue that is driven by his own frustrations, Frank starts to express the shallowness of the American life:

“I mean talk about decadence”, he declares, “How decadent can a society get? This country’s probably psychiatric, psychoanalytical capital of the world . . . Our whole damn culture is geared to [discipline]; it’s the new religion; it’s everybody’s intellectual and spiritual sugar-tit . . . It’s as if everybody’d made this tacit agreement to live in a state of total self-deception.”

Yet, it is April that promptly that comes to do something about. Though, her suggestion to begin their lives anew in Paris isn’t exactly driven by her worrisome of Frank’s welfare or the unspeakable fear that her children might suffer the same consequences. In fact, April is willing to recognize her ideals as superficial posturing, and even voices her contempt. Struggling against her own pretensions – she is an actress after all – she values and aspires to real honesty in the end. Informing Frank that she doesn’t love him later in the novel may appear selfish, but for April it is entirely necessary. In her riveting monologue, April declares her aggravation by scolding Frank’s abandonment of his life goals:

“What a subtle treacherous thing it was to let yourself go that way! Because once you’d started it was terribly difficult to stop; soon you were saying “I’m sorry of course you’re right,” and “Whatever you think is best,” and “You’re the most wonderful and valuable thing in the world,” and the next thing you knew all honesty, all truth, was as far away and glimmering, as hopelessly unattainable as the world of golden people.”

Undeniably, under the pressure of post-war American conformity, both Frank and April are imprisoned by their own intellects. Though, self-analysis is seen as a virtue, it is not used as a means to greater awareness or an improved self-image. For example, Frank attempts to out-maneuver April by suggesting that she visit a psychoanalyst, implying that she is fundamentally, psychologically flawed by not conforming to his and society’s wishes. Even though he improvises his reasons for such a suggestion as “he smiled at her like a patient psychiatrist”, April respects and fears his use of Freudian language by coldly and defiantly declaring “I don’t love you. How’s that?” Of course, Frank responses to her crude assertion through rationality as he says “I wonder if what you’re really doing here isn’t sort of trying to evade everything until you’re — well, until you’re in analysis. Absurdly, Frank further lectures April about how wanting to have an abortion might be an expression of her desire to be a man – that she is trying to open herself up “so that the penis could come out and hang down where it belonged.”

John Givings, as depicted by Sam Mendes’ 2008 adaptation of the novel, played by Michael Shannon.

With such nonsensical logic, Yates quickly introduces another character to install a sense of reason in the narrative before it gets thwarted with crude speculations. As a professor of mathematics, it is given that John Givings is a person governed by reason, even though his enigma is situated by his alleged insanity. Mrs. Givings, his mother, introduces him to the Wheelers as the young, successful couple whom might share his intellectual faculties through their social conformity. While initially the Wheelers are taken aback by his passively callous remarks to his parents, the three begin to share a sense of camaraderie against the American society, particularly when the Wheelers profess their disillusionment of the suburbs and their consequent decision to reside in Paris.

As a vocal critic of the “false” American dream – not to mention his irritation whenever his mother invites everyone to look at the colors of the rainbow (a form of false escapism from reality) when an awkward situation arises – Givings doesn’t let the Wheelers off easily when they again profess their postponement to go to Paris due to economic difficulties and unexpected pregnancy. “Okay; that’s a good reason,” John initially responds, “money is always a good reason . . . but hardly ever the real reason. Little woman [April] decides she isn’t quite ready to quit playing house? Nah, nah, that’s not it. She looks too tough. Tough and female and adequate as hell. Okay, then; it must’ve been you.” John then begins to blame Frank that he must have gotten too comfortable living in the “Hopeless Emptiness” and that he might even intentionally “knocked [April] up on purpose.”

Yet, John Givings’ lashing commentary even manages to encompass April’s faults of her selfishness and illogical desire to immigrate as he recognizes her contempt toward Frank:

“ I feel sorry for you. Still, maybe you deserve each other. Matter of fact, the way you look right now, I’m beginning to feel sorry for him now, too. I mean come to think of it, you must give him a pretty bad time, if making babies is the only way he can prove he’s got a pair of balls. Hey, I’m glad of one thing though . . . I’m glad I’m not gonna be that kid.”

Then, it is expected that the aftermath of John’s disruptive visitation leave the Wheelers in a state of agitation and self-contempt. Frank consistently denies John’s shrewd condemnation of their own reality by intimating his insanity as “the inability to relate to another human being,” and “the inability to love,” alluding to Frank’s previous proposal for April to visit a psychiatrist when she declared her “inability” to love him.

It is evident then, that Revolutionary Road has little good to say about American institutions but more to its main characters. Frank and April Wheeler definitely generate our sympathy despite their delusions, as we comprehend the stultifying disposition of the American suburbs illustrated by Yate’s commentary. Yet, Yates isn’t one-dimensional in his criticism. He comparatively accentuates that much of what goes bad in the Wheelers’ lives is their own doing, a result of their selfishness, their weakness and their inability to admit the truth. While Frank and April show great disdain for the venal ideals of the culture, at heart they aspire to the same bland successes. Their failure is their own fault; Yates seems to say, yet he has chosen them to write about and asks us to seriously contemplate their inner lives, which we do.