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A review by versmonesprit
In the Miso Soup by Ryū Murakami
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Plot
- Strong character development? No
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? N/A
0.25
Horror is a broad genre, so imagine my bewilderment at finding out In the Miso Soup does not, cannot fit into any of the niches, but is instead a major sin against papers, trees, ink, books, and readers: the author, the publisher, the average reader all try to gaslight you into thinking something must be going on for this book, when in fact absolutely nothing at all is — not characters, not narration, not plot, and not even horror. Ryū Murakami had the biggest target anyone could wish for, and still managed to miss by several miles.
There are several culprits.
The first, obviously, is the plot. There are three crime scenes in this book, and only one is “on-screen”. The only massacre readers get to witness falls comically short, for the reason that there is in fact an inexplicably super-natural hypnosis going on. Not only does this give the killer a convenient advantage and remove the tension of a chase, it also eliminates any exposition of fear and horror on the victims’ part. This unrealistic plot convenience is not an isolated incident either. Despite the book incessantly yapping about the author’s “cultural analysis” (though it’s impossible to call something that shallow as such) and unabashedly info-dumping, not once do we get any explanation as to how someone who had five bodies under his belt by the age of 12 could ever see the light of day again, let alone fly internationally with no fuss whatsoever. And as “Frank” info-dumps about his childhood, we get yet more cringy exaggeration that was clearly intended to be horrifying but instead makes it feel as if the book was written by a child — like how a very small child manages to bite his mother’s arm so hard and deep that it gushes blood into his mouth. In what universe?? You may be thinking, “Oh come on, you have to suspend your disbelief, this is fictional, and on top, a horror story.” Except serial killers are not supernatural horror, even when the author for whatever stupid, godforsaken reason chooses to involve “black magic” — oh yeah, there’s also that! How could I forget?! A boy, not even 12 yet, is incarcerated at a mental hospital, where he meets people who teach him black magic and how to cut throats without causing arterial spraying. Yeah. Yeah. We’re supposed to believe that. And maybe, just maybe, if black magic actually played any part in the book, this could’ve been forgivable. But no, we only get supernaturally powerful hypnosis, and that all glossed over (or even performed “off-screen” yet again) despite the book taking any semblance of an opportunity to go on and on and on and on about all sorts of irrelevant minutiae. The only things omitted from the book are the things that are vital to the plot 🙃 We will get info-dumped when it absolutely is not necessary to learn anything about the main characters’ childhoods, but oh no, we will not witness anything essential!
Speaking of all the torturous yapping, the way Ryū Murakami absolutely murders his own book (which is the only real horrifying thing going on for this allegedly horror book) is to repeat everything, every unimportant detail, every juvenile thought, at least thrice. You just read exactly what everyone did? Yeah here, read it again. And just to be sure, come on, read it again. And because Ryū Murakami is convinced you are the dumbest fucker to have ever plagued God’s green earth, read also the very mid breakdown of the few scenes, actions, dialogues that could have had some symbolic value. But no, you think it’s done? Haha, funny. We’re not. Here’s five more pages on that exact same thing. You don’t like that? Too fucking bad, this is all you’re getting up until the miserable “the real treasure is the friends we made along the way” ass ending! Talk about being anticlimactic — not even flight 370 crashed this hard! One moment you are finally (after 100+ pages, mind you 🙂) reading some horror element that comes way too abruptly to have any real effect, and the very next, you’re plunged into a whole bunch of crap where nothing happens other than an unending monologue about a murderous childhood, and an apology of horror films as if this is debate club. Because that’s a book! 😃
And congratulations, you are the valedictorian of clown school if you for one second believe there will be something to do with miso soup! Nope, it is just Japan. Let’s see if it makes more sense when put like this: “Frank” wishes he could have had miso soup with Kenji, but it’s alright, because Japan is a miso soup in which he now floats like a vegetable. Yeah no, still dumb as shit. I wish someone had poured boiling hot miso soup into my eyes so I wouldn’t have been able to read this utter crap of a book, but that’s life for you. We win some, we lose most. Here, the losses include far too many brain cells, I’m afraid.
There are several culprits.
The first, obviously, is the plot. There are three crime scenes in this book, and only one is “on-screen”. The only massacre readers get to witness falls comically short, for the reason that there is in fact an inexplicably super-natural hypnosis going on. Not only does this give the killer a convenient advantage and remove the tension of a chase, it also eliminates any exposition of fear and horror on the victims’ part. This unrealistic plot convenience is not an isolated incident either. Despite the book incessantly yapping about the author’s “cultural analysis” (though it’s impossible to call something that shallow as such) and unabashedly info-dumping, not once do we get any explanation as to how someone who had five bodies under his belt by the age of 12 could ever see the light of day again, let alone fly internationally with no fuss whatsoever. And as “Frank” info-dumps about his childhood, we get yet more cringy exaggeration that was clearly intended to be horrifying but instead makes it feel as if the book was written by a child — like how a very small child manages to bite his mother’s arm so hard and deep that it gushes blood into his mouth. In what universe?? You may be thinking, “Oh come on, you have to suspend your disbelief, this is fictional, and on top, a horror story.” Except serial killers are not supernatural horror, even when the author for whatever stupid, godforsaken reason chooses to involve “black magic” — oh yeah, there’s also that! How could I forget?! A boy, not even 12 yet, is incarcerated at a mental hospital, where he meets people who teach him black magic and how to cut throats without causing arterial spraying. Yeah. Yeah. We’re supposed to believe that. And maybe, just maybe, if black magic actually played any part in the book, this could’ve been forgivable. But no, we only get supernaturally powerful hypnosis, and that all glossed over (or even performed “off-screen” yet again) despite the book taking any semblance of an opportunity to go on and on and on and on about all sorts of irrelevant minutiae. The only things omitted from the book are the things that are vital to the plot 🙃 We will get info-dumped when it absolutely is not necessary to learn anything about the main characters’ childhoods, but oh no, we will not witness anything essential!
Speaking of all the torturous yapping, the way Ryū Murakami absolutely murders his own book (which is the only real horrifying thing going on for this allegedly horror book) is to repeat everything, every unimportant detail, every juvenile thought, at least thrice. You just read exactly what everyone did? Yeah here, read it again. And just to be sure, come on, read it again. And because Ryū Murakami is convinced you are the dumbest fucker to have ever plagued God’s green earth, read also the very mid breakdown of the few scenes, actions, dialogues that could have had some symbolic value. But no, you think it’s done? Haha, funny. We’re not. Here’s five more pages on that exact same thing. You don’t like that? Too fucking bad, this is all you’re getting up until the miserable “the real treasure is the friends we made along the way” ass ending! Talk about being anticlimactic — not even flight 370 crashed this hard! One moment you are finally (after 100+ pages, mind you 🙂) reading some horror element that comes way too abruptly to have any real effect, and the very next, you’re plunged into a whole bunch of crap where nothing happens other than an unending monologue about a murderous childhood, and an apology of horror films as if this is debate club. Because that’s a book! 😃
And congratulations, you are the valedictorian of clown school if you for one second believe there will be something to do with miso soup! Nope, it is just Japan. Let’s see if it makes more sense when put like this: “Frank” wishes he could have had miso soup with Kenji, but it’s alright, because Japan is a miso soup in which he now floats like a vegetable. Yeah no, still dumb as shit. I wish someone had poured boiling hot miso soup into my eyes so I wouldn’t have been able to read this utter crap of a book, but that’s life for you. We win some, we lose most. Here, the losses include far too many brain cells, I’m afraid.