Revolutionary Road: Proving it's possible to hate every character and still love the book

Frank and April Wheeler first crossed paths at a party in New York City, when their hearts were young and running free.

Events directly preceding their first meeting.

April didn't have any particular direction in life, and neither did Frank. But they shared at least two things: debilitating baggage from the separate failings of their parents and the central goal of being more fabulous than anyone else in the history of ever.

Their romance was whirlwindy, and then they got married because it seemed like a fun activity for a weekday. But with one catalyzing event, their lives started getting less and less fabulous.

"Wasn't it true, then, that everything in his life from that point on had been a succession of things he hadn't really wanted to do? Taking a hopelessly dull job to prove he could be as responsible as any other family man, moving to an overpriced, genteel apartment to prove his mature belief in the fundamentals of orderliness and good health, having another child to prove that the first one hadn't been a mistake, buying a house in the country because that was the next logical step and he had to prove himself capable of taking it. Proving, proving; and for no other reason than that he was married to a woman who had somehow managed to put him forever on the defensive, who loved him when he was nice, who lived according to what she happened to feel like doing and who might at any time---this was the hell of it---who might at any time of day or night just happen to feel like leaving him. It was as ludicrous and as simple as that." (p. 53)

They never resigned themselves to the life they were living. They were constantly expecting to transcend circumstances they deemed unworthy of their self-conceptions, constantly at odds with each other and their home and work and friends and coworkers . . . and, most tragically, with their role as parents.

For the first 20 pages, I marginally identified with Frank and April. My husband and I are frolicking through a nontraditional life in a nontraditional neighborhood in a nontraditional city. At this point, neither of us would go quietly into an office job or the suburbs. But that's where the comparison ends, I hope . . . because I LOATHED these people. They are probably the most shamelessly selfish characters I've encountered in literature, and not just April and Frank; EVERY SINGLE character is competing to be the most self-involved, and they're ALL WINNING. And that's kind of the point. Well, it's ONE of the points. There are an astonishing number of points (without being preachy, I promise).

Now watch as I wantonly compare this book to other things: In terms of themes, I can trace major parallels to Blue Valentine, and at least a few to American Psycho. You'll have to figure out what those parallels are. Think of it as a very sad Easter-egg hunt. Find an egg; take an antidepressant.

Kitty self-medicates after learning the American Dream is a lie.

SOURCE: Yates, Richard. (1961). Revolutionary Road. New York: Vintage.

In which I compare Lou Ford to Patrick Bateman, even though they're nothing alike

This noir classic is narrated in the easy Southern drawl of Lou Ford, deputy sheriff of a small Texas town. The people in town know him as gentle-mannered and a little dumb, but he is hiding a dark secret, something he calls "the sickness." He has kept it at bay for 15 years, but it's about to make a comeback . . . because this would be a pretty boring story if it didn't.

In my head, I've been comparing this book to American Psycho, which is a problem because they're not much alike . . . aside from the killing, of course. The Killer Inside Me came first, by a lot, and must have been quite shocking for its time, but it looks so tame next to Easton Ellis's bloodbath of a book. And Patrick Bateman is an unapologetic sociopath, but Lou Ford falls more on the side of psychopath, because he does have a conscience . . . even if he chooses to ignore it most of the time.

I think what keeps bringing me back to Bateman is the hint of humor, twisted though it may be. In this book, the inappropriate giggles are caused by the way Lou Ford suppresses "the sickness" while keeping up his doddering deputy sheriff routine. He wants to hurt people, but he knows he can't HURT them hurt them, so he inflicts pain by the most benign means imaginable: He bores them to tears. Seriously. He tortures them with corny cliches. You know the kind I mean: "Every cloud has its silver lining." "Haste makes waste." "Look before you leap." He's a MONSTER.

Oh! I thought of another Bateman/Ford similarity: They both hate women. And can we talk about the women in Lou's life? Behind Door No.1, we have Joyce, a prostitute who likes to be beaten and doesn't care about anything but getting out of town with Lou. Behind Door No. 2, we have Amy, the town sweetheart who ALSO likes to be beaten and doesn't care about anything but getting Lou to marry her. I know . . . so many layers to explore. I'm sure some people would argue that these women are strong but just can't flex their muscles within the restrictions of their time and place. I think these women are idiots. Would you care for a more concrete example? Happy to oblige.

The setting: Amy is mad at Lou because he kept her waiting at his house. Amy is nagging him, as we pesky women are known to do.

"All she had to say would take her the rest of her life to finish; and I wasn't even halfway in the mood for it. I reached out and grabbed her by the crotch. . . . I lay down beside her with my clothes on. I had to do it, because there was just one way of shutting Amy up." (p. 59)

What Lou is saying doesn't offend me, because Lou doesn't like women. That's the character. What bothers me is that his tactic totally works on her. On numerous occasions, when Amy gets indignant about something (often rightfully so), Lou just waves something shiny in front of her face until she loses her train of thought.

But do you know what I LOVE about this book? (A) The Southern-isms: "You know I've just been busy as a chigger at a picnic" (p. 30). (B) The noir-isms: "Baby didn't know it, but baby was dead" (p. 14). Good enough for me.

SOURCE: Thompson, Jim. (1991). The Killer Inside Me. New York: Vintage Books.