Derek McCormack's The Show that Smells assaults the senses like an opium-induced train-wreck into absurdity.
That is to say, it is a wild ride that is all but impossible to turn away from.
Staccato sentences collide with gruesome grotesquerie, with a collusion of familiar faces - Lon Chaney, The Carter Family, Coco fucking Chanel, a myriad host of others - interacting as if infested with hornets inside their living brains. Narrative? None to be seen. ...Or at least, nothing so overwrought as to be comprehended as such.
The Show that Smells takes place inside a funhouse, a maze of mirrors, which fails to reflect the vampiric version of Elsa Schiaparelli (who, it is clarified, is not actually a vampire in real life. Probably.) and yet casts a horrific pall on the other characters; the Vampire from Vogue, and the tubercular Jimmie Rodgers, for instance. The Show that Smells is a delusion, an illusion of queer customers masked by mirrors and madness, plagued by puns and peccadilloes of the most peculiar sort.
What smells, exactly, about the titular Show? The Show, as it were, refers to the most abhorrent of carnival geek parades, only more sputum-stained. Innards on display, festering and bloating, create the unpleasant olfactory sensation that is referred to in the title. The Show that Smells. And the barrage against sanity continues as The Show grows within the imaginations of those hosting it.
But - rest assured - The Show does not take place within this title. Instead, it is merely discussed, and/or alluded to. The characters themselves are far too absorbed with trying on sequined gowns, and finding the proper way of suiting legless, armless torsos, or perhaps promenade-bound Siamese twins. And the tasting of blood. And the inhalation of various fluids, herein referred to as eau de toilettes but are, in actuality, tinctures of guts, gore, and guano.
Waiting for Godot it isn't. And yet, somehow, inexplicably, is.
The Show that Smells "is a work of fiction. It is a parody. It is a phantasmagoria." The Show that Smells is Michael Brodsky, with a delirious sense of humour. The Show that Smells is Samuel Coleridge's "Kubla Khan," with a cock-eyed regard for both rhyme and reason - and no decreed pleasure dome, be it stately or otherwise. The Show that Smells is simultaneously the floor waxed with mop-wringings from Carlton Mellic III, and blanketed with clippings from Kevin L. Donihe's shag carpet. The Show that Smells is the brain-damaged grandchild of Tod Browning's Freaks!, and The Show that Smells is one hell of a brain-tingling, mind-rattling descent into those depths that McCormack has so pleasingly plummed for us.
What remains to be said is that this book is brief, though challenging enough to be almost (but not quite) instantly gratifying.