Fade to White
Jul. 25th, 2013 06:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sawylLast but by no means least, Catherynne Valente's Fade to White, a disturbing post-nuclear vision of a 1960s America where Joseph McCarthy has become president — with Ray Kroc as his VP! — and whose attitudes to sex and fertility recall Atwood's sinister Republic of Gilead.
The story unfolds as a series of alternating scenes focusing on two principal characters: teenagers Sylvie and Martin. Both are preparing for their respective rites of passage — an Announcement for Martin, a Presentation for Sylvie — with very different degrees of enthusiasm. Martin, a dreamer and an artist, can't wait to become the best father he can possibly be; Sylvie, with a secret buried in her past and a secret, chaste relationship with a local boy, is far less enthusiastic about being poked & prodded by a doctor and, if successful, assigned a quarter-share of a husband.
The teenagers' stories are intercut with a series of advertising pitches for the very best that the post-apocalyptic world has to offer: poison-free vegetables; bromide beer; and a type of brylcreem that prevents hair loss. Each of the pitches is undercut by a series of blue pencil interjections from a cynical advertising executive, who attempts to cajole her underlings into coming up with something a bit more manipulative.
The adverts cleverly allow Valente to expand her dystopian vision of the future, undercutting Martin's dreamy ideals and deepening Sylvie's grudging compliance in a way that gives the piece a sinister depth. And if the ending doesn't come as a surprise — and given tone and some of the foreshadowing, I don't think it's supposed to — the way that both Martin and Sylvie accept their predetermined fates is chilling.
The story unfolds as a series of alternating scenes focusing on two principal characters: teenagers Sylvie and Martin. Both are preparing for their respective rites of passage — an Announcement for Martin, a Presentation for Sylvie — with very different degrees of enthusiasm. Martin, a dreamer and an artist, can't wait to become the best father he can possibly be; Sylvie, with a secret buried in her past and a secret, chaste relationship with a local boy, is far less enthusiastic about being poked & prodded by a doctor and, if successful, assigned a quarter-share of a husband.
The teenagers' stories are intercut with a series of advertising pitches for the very best that the post-apocalyptic world has to offer: poison-free vegetables; bromide beer; and a type of brylcreem that prevents hair loss. Each of the pitches is undercut by a series of blue pencil interjections from a cynical advertising executive, who attempts to cajole her underlings into coming up with something a bit more manipulative.
The adverts cleverly allow Valente to expand her dystopian vision of the future, undercutting Martin's dreamy ideals and deepening Sylvie's grudging compliance in a way that gives the piece a sinister depth. And if the ending doesn't come as a surprise — and given tone and some of the foreshadowing, I don't think it's supposed to — the way that both Martin and Sylvie accept their predetermined fates is chilling.
