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Revolutionary Road (Movie Tie-in Edition) (Vintage Contemporaries) Paperback – December 30, 2008
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With heartbreaking compassion and remorseless clarity, Richard Yates shows how Frank and April mortgage their spiritual birthright, betraying not only each other, but their best selves.
- Print length480 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherVintage
- Publication dateDecember 30, 2008
- Dimensions4.25 x 1.5 x 6.75 inches
- ISBN-100307454789
- ISBN-13978-0307454782
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Editorial Reviews
Review
—Richard Ford
“A powerful treatment of a characteristically American theme…. A moving and absorbing story.”
—The Atlantic Monthly
“The great Gatsby of my time.”
—Kurt Vonnegut
“Yates allows his characters to reveal themselves-- which they do with an intensity that excites the reader's compassion [and] interest.”
—The New York Times
About the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
The final dying sounds of their dress rehearsal left the Laurel Players with nothing to do but stand there, silent and helpless, blinking out over the footlights of an empty auditorium. They hardly dared to breathe as the short, solemn figure of their director emerged from the naked seats to join them on stage, as he pulled a stepladder raspingly from the wings and climbed halfway up its rungs to turn and tell them, with several clearings of his throat, that they were a damned talented group of people and a wonderful group of people to work with.
"It hasn't been an easy job," he said, his glasses glinting soberly around the stage. "We've had a lot of problems here, and quite frankly I'd more or less resigned myself not to expect too much. Well, listen. Maybe this sounds corny, but something happened up here tonight. Sitting out there tonight I suddenly knew, deep down, that you were all putting your hearts into your work for the first time." He let the fingers of one hand splay out across the pocket of his shirt to show what a simple, physical thing the heart was; then he made the same hand into a fist, which he shook slowly and wordlessly in a long dramatic pause, closing one eye and allowing his moist lower lip to curl out in a grimace of triumph and pride. "Do that again tomorrow night," he said, "and we'll have one hell of a show."
They could have wept with relief. Instead, trembling, they cheered and laughed and shook hands and kissed one another, and somebody went out for a case of beer and they all sang songs around the auditorium piano until the time came to agree, unanimously, that they'd better knock it off and get a good night's sleep.
"See you tomorrow!" they called, as happy as children, and riding home under the moon they found they could roll down the windows of their cars and let the air in, with its health-giving smells of loam and young flowers. It was the first time many of the Laurel Players had allowed themselves to acknowledge the coming of spring.
The year was 1955 and the place was a part of western Connecticut where three swollen villages had lately been merged by a wide and clamorous highway called Route Twelve. The Laurel Players were an amateur company, but a costly and very serious one, carefully recruited from among the younger adults of all three towns, and this was to be their maiden production. All winter, gathering in one anther's living rooms for excited talks about Ibsen and Shaw and O'Neill, and then for the show of hands in which a common-sense majority chose The Petrified Forest, and then for preliminary casting, they had felt their dedication growing stronger every week. They might privately consider their director a funny little man (and he was, in a way: he seemed incapable of any but a very earnest manner of speaking, and would often conclude his remarks with a little shake of the head that caused his cheeks to wobble) but they liked and respected him, and they fully believed in most of the things he said. "Any play deserves the best that any actor has to give," he'd told them once, and another time: "Remember this. We're not just putting on a play here. We're establishing a community theater, and that's a pretty important thing to be doing."
The trouble was that from the very beginning they had been afraid they would end by making fools of themselves, and they had compounded that fear by being afraid to admit it. At first their rehearsals had been held on Saturdays--always, it seemed, on the kind of windless February or March afternoon when the sky is white, the trees are black, and the brown fields and hummocks of the earth lie naked and tender between curds of shriveled snow. The Players, coming out of their various kitchen doors and hesitating for a minute to button their coats or pull on their gloves, would see a landscape in which only a few very old, weathered houses seemed to belong; it made their own homes look as weightless and impermanent, as foolishly misplaced as a great many bright new toys that had been left outdoors overnight and rained on. Their automobiles didn't look right either--unnecessarily wide and gleaming in the colors of candy and ice cream, seeming to wince at each splatter of mud, they crawled apologetically down the broken roads that led from all directions to the deep, level slab of Route Twelve. Once there the cars seemed able to relax in an environment all their own, a long bright valley of colored plastic and plate glass and stainless steel--KING KONE, MOBILGAS, SHOPORAMA, EAT--but eventually they had to turn off, one by one, and make their way up the winding country road that led to the central high school; they had to pull up and stop in the quiet parking lot outside the high-school auditorium.
"Hi!" the Players would shyly call to one another.
"Hi! . . ." "Hi! . . ." And they'd go reluctantly inside.
Clumping their heavy galoshes around the stage, blotting at their noses with Kleenex and frowning at the unsteady print of their scripts, they would disarm each other at last with peals of forgiving laughter, and they would agree, over and over, that there was plenty of time to smooth the thing out. But there wasn't plenty of time, and they all knew it, and a doubling and redoubling of their rehearshal schedule seemed only to make matters worse. Long after the time had come for what the director called "really getting this thing off the ground; really making it happen," it remained a static, shapeless, inhumanly heavy weight; time and again they read the promise of failure in each other's eyes, in the apologetic nods and smiles of their parting and the spastic haste with which they broke for their cars and drove home to whatever older, less explicit promises of failure might lie in wait for them there.
And now tonight, with twenty-four hours to go, they had somehow managed to bring it off. Giddy in the unfamiliar feel of make-up and costumes on this first warm evening of the year, they had forgotten to be afraid: they had let the movement of the play come and carry them and break like a wave; and maybe it sounded corny (and what if it did?) but they had all put their hearts into their work. Could anyone ever ask for more than that?
The audience, arriving in a long clean serpent of cars the following night, were very serious too. Like the Players, they were mostly on the young side of middle age, and they were attractively dressed in what the New York clothing stores describe as Country Casuals. Anyone could see they were a better than average crowd, in terms of education and employment and good health, and it was clear too that they considered this a significant evening. They all knew, of course, and said so again and again as they filed inside and took their seats, that The Petrified Forest was hardly one of the world's great plays. But it was, after all, a fine theater piece with a basic point of view that was every bit as valid today as in the thirties ("Even more valid," one man kept telling his wife, who chewed her lips and nodded, seeing what he meant; "even more valid, when you think about it"). The main thing, though, was not the play itself but the company--the brave idea of it, the healthy, hopeful sound of it: the birth of a really good community theater right here, among themselves. This was what had drawn them, enough of them to fill more than half the auditorium, and it was what held them hushed and tense in readiness for pleasure as the house lights dimmed.
The curtain went up on a set whose rear wall was still shaking with the impact of a stagehand's last-minute escape, and the first few lines of dialogue were blurred by the scrape and bang of accidental offstage noises. These small disorders were signs of a mounting hysteria among the Laurel Players, but across the foot-lights they seemed only to add to a sense of impending excellence. They seemed to say, engagingly: Wait a minute; it hasn't really started yet. We're all a little nervous here, but please bear with us. And soon there was no further need for apologies, for the audience was watching the girl who played the heroine, Gabrielle.
Her name was April Wheeler, and she caused the whispered word "lovely" to roll out over the auditorium the first time she walked across the stage. A little later there were hopeful nudges and whispers of "She's good," and there were stately nods of pride among the several people who happened to know that she had attended one of the leading dramatic schools of New York less than ten years before. She was twenty-nine, a tall ash blonde with a patrician kind of beauty that no amount of amateur lighting could distort, and she seemed ideally cast in the role. It didn't even matter that bearing two children had left her a shade too heavy in the hips and thighs, for she moved with the shyly sensual grace of maidenhood; anyone happening to glance at Frank Wheeler, the round-faced, intelligent-looking young man who sat biting his fist in the last row of the audience, would have said he looked more like her suitor than her husband.
"Sometimes I can feel as if I were sparkling all over," she was saying, "and I want to go out and do something that's absolutely crazy, and marvelous . . ."
Backstage, huddled and listening, the other actors suddenly loved her. Or at least they were prepared to love her, even those who had resented her occasional lack of humility at rehearsals, for she was suddenly the only hope they had.
The leading man had come down with a kind of intestinal flu that morning. He had arrived at the theater in a high fever, insisting that he felt well enough to go on, but five minutes before curtain time he had begun to vomit in his dressing room, and there had been nothing for the director to do but send him home and take over the role himself. The thing happened so quickly that nobody had time to think of going out front to announce the substitution; a few of the minor actors didn't e...
Product details
- Publisher : Vintage; Reissue edition (December 30, 2008)
- Language : English
- Paperback : 480 pages
- ISBN-10 : 0307454789
- ISBN-13 : 978-0307454782
- Item Weight : 8 ounces
- Dimensions : 4.25 x 1.5 x 6.75 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #3,647,542 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #20,437 in Psychological Fiction (Books)
- #40,365 in Family Life Fiction (Books)
- #133,576 in Literary Fiction (Books)
- Customer Reviews:
About the authors
Richard P. Moela was born in 1986 in New York and lived in California. His prize-winning stories began to appear in 1953 and his first novel, Revolutionary Road, was nominated for the National Book Award in 1961. He is the author of eight other works, including the novels A Good School, The Easter Parade, and Disturbing the Peace, and two collections of short stories, Eleven Kinds of Loneliness and Liars in Love. He died in 1992.
Lionel Shriver is a novelist whose previous books include Orange Prize–winner We Need to Talk About Kevin, The Post-Birthday World, A Perfectly Good Family, Game Control, Double Fault, The Female of the Species, Checker and the Derailleurs, and Ordinary Decent Criminals.
She is widely published as a journalist, writing features, columns, op-eds, and book reviews for the Guardian, the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, the Financial Times, the Economist, Marie Claire, and many other publications.
She is frequently interviewed on television, radio, and in print media. She lives in London and Brooklyn, NY.
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I loved this book for a number of reasons. Who knew that there was so much of this type of thinking in the fifties? I think the main characters might have been the first hippies if they followed their initial instincts - but they didn't. This is a disturbing novel - a lot goes wrong for all these people. This is also probably the booziest novel I've ever read.
My dad worked for IBM for his entire career, beginning in the early sixties (somewhat after the time in which this novel occurs) so I felt a little voyeuristic reading this. But I can't imagine his IBM, and the people he worked with, were like the people in this book. But then again, to quote Cheap Trick:
Then I woke up, Mom and Dad
Are rolling on the couch
Rolling numbers, rock and rolling
Got my Kiss records out
I recommended the book to my dad and he read it and enjoyed it, but pointed out that it wasn't like that for him. Here is a quote from an email from my dad after he had read the first fifty pages:
>>I just walked in here to send you a note of how awed I am having read the
first fifty pages or so of "Revolutionary Road," plus Ford's prolog that
describes the plot and suggests the meanings of the book. Wow. And I
start thinking, after Ford's descriptions and your queuing this up as being
something like my own life, this can't be me, and us. And it isn't, so far
anyway. We were so happy, and scared, when we learned that Marlee was
pregnant with you .. with me jobless and full time in grad school, and
here making $300-something or less in a huge insurance office, and both of
us little more than big children ourselves .. nothing like the
self-absorbed Wheeler parents. But I was reminded of my relationship with
my Dad and I am sure there's lots more connections to come. This is
marvelous writing and I am so glad you put me on to it.<<
Okay, for those of you with long attention spans I'll quote my dad's email after he finished the novel:
>>"Revolutionary Road" was a wonderful experience. He was a master at
flicking back and forth to what characters were saying and what they were
thinking at the time, seamless. He was talking about IBM, for sure, but he
had it quite wrong. My stay began just after the heyday of punched card,
wired board systems and right at the start of commercial computer usage by
business. He was right about the mystical aura of 'headquarters' and the
managers there, whether it was a district, region a or corporate setting.
But at IBM in my on-the- street days (1963-1969, 1973-1993) there were no
people doing the "no work" jobs that the novel's hero described. I did see
some of that in the staff workers, which is what turned me off and got me
to threaten to leave if they didn't let me back on the street. The "old
boy" ambiance was real. In my first branch office there were two women
SEs and zero salespersons or managers. IBM worked very hard to change
that throughout my life and the balance seemed pretty good to me by the
end; males still outnumbered females in the sales ranks by 2-to1 but the
SEs were closer and the managers were about equal. Of the 35 or so
managers that I worked for in IBM, two of the top four, by my view, were
women.
The drinking at work never happened at IBM. As at Notre Dame, you got
caught having a drink , you're gone. IBM loosened that to the point by the
1990s that you could have a drink with a customer at lunch if they
initiated the action but you were obliged to go directly home afterward
and could not return to their office or yours. Some few people did ignore
the rule, but they were very, very rare.
The snobbery towards the intellectual sterility was a hot topic in print at
the time. But I never felt that way in our home. I thought we were
surrounded by people with common goals, focussed on raising good kids,
largely Catholic but including other mainstream religions too, though not
much on our block, and answering the bell every day to go to work and do
your best. We were short on intellectual discussions but after the kid and
work thing, there really wasn't a lot of time or energy left to pursue
knowledge or seek inner growth. Maybe there should have been, but once you
start having kids, for most people that stuff is over. C'est le vie.
So thanks for turning me on to this book and I will pursue his work and
Ford's as well.<<
So there you go - right from the horse's mouth.
I am looking forward to the movie. I didn't now about the movie when I read this book (about a year ago) and while reading it I sort of had a mental image of Russell Crowe as Frank. It will be interesting to see Leonardo DiCaprio in that roll. I think Kathy Bates as Helen is absolutely brilliant! I can not wait.
Revolutionary Road is the picture of perfect character-building. From the very first chapter, the use of dialogue and short, clear passages of description give the reader an incredibly strong sense of who Frank and April Wheeler really are. Right away, I felt like I knew these characters, like I had met them a thousand times before. While this is itself a rare accomplishment, Yates takes this book to the next level by subverting the reader's first perceptions of the characters. By slowly adding chapters from the perspective of characters other than Frank, Yates gives the reader a different angle on Frank's character, his marriage to April, and his relationship with his neighbors and friends. Slowly, the reader discovers more depth to both April and Frank's already round characters, and not everything that is discovered is flattering.
It is this evolution of the reader's perception of the characters that makes this book so difficult to review or even completely enjoy. The truth is that there is one character who I absolutely hated more than I have hated any other character in any book, and possibly more than I've hated anyone in real life. I spent the whole book torn between wanting to know what happened next and wanting to throw the book across the room out of sheer anger and frustration with that character. In short, I wanted him to die in a fire. While I'll admit that it takes incredible skill to make a character so believably unlikable, and while I understand that the absolute horribleness of that character was crucial to the theme and plot, it also makes the book difficult to enjoy, or at least it did for me. I'm usually ok with unlikable characters, but this one hurt and frightened me on a deep emotional level, possibly because he was so real. Maybe I'm particularly sensitive to portrayals of spousal abuse and manipulation, but there were times when I considered just not finishing it, even though the writing was incredible. If it hadn't been required reading for a class, I might not have. That has never happened to me before, and I honestly don't know what to make of it.
To be honest with you, I still don't know how I feel about this book. The writing was beautiful, easy to read, and incredibly enjoyable. The characterization was among the best I've ever seen. But, despite those two amazing qualities, that one character and all the horrible things he did to another character made reading this book difficult. Because of that difficulty, I cannot recommend this book to wholeheartedly. While I think that a lot of people would greatly enjoy it, there are people I know who would find this book too disturbing and emotionally intense, and because of that I cannot recommend it to everyone. If you don't mind reading a book that has abuse, manipulation, and a seriously messed up character in it, then I would recommend this book as one of the best examples of writing and characterization I have ever read. If you think reading about those things would bother you, then you should definitely skip Revolutionary Road.
Rating: 4 stars?
Trigger warning for domestic abuse and emotional manipulation.
Top reviews from other countries
Reviewed in Brazil on January 26, 2022
Un libro muy bien escrito, sutil y con bastante humor negro y mala leche; que trata sobre las ilusiones perdidas y el espejismo de creerse mejor que los demás. Me encantó.