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Rating: There are books that smell of madeleines and others that give off the scent of camellias. Violet novels and ginger tales. Many novels have their own peculiar scent, which adds to that of the paper itself and the ink. "The Shadow Over Innsmouth" is the only story in the world that smells like fish gone bad. Not that psychologically unstable misanthrope and slightly racist Howard P. is new to these tricks: his collection of poems "Fungi from Yuggoth" seemed like a plate of sautéed porcini mushrooms when you sniffed it. But rotten fish, really, Howie, what did we do to deserve this? Smell aside, Lovecraft is at his best here in terms of narrative ability and for once he doesn’t overdo it with the usual mantra of "blasphemous," "execrable," and "unspeakable."
The plot is quite simple: a young hopeful tourist seeking picturesque towns ends up in New England and discovers there is a very ancient town on the coast not marked on maps. Once he learns that the few passing tourists, for some reason, tend not to return, our protagonist naturally rushes to visit this putrid version of Rosignano Solvay. Like Rosignano, Innsmouth was also built thanks to the activities of a wealthy patron (here Obed Marsh, there Mr. Solvay), who then dealt with curious fish-like creatures to receive gold and immortality in exchange for periodic human sacrifices and a trivial promise: to have citizens mate with these overgrown breams. The community shows immediate enthusiasm for the patron’s bold project (does it remind you of anyone?...) after discovering from local TV channels that copulating with the Creature from the Black Lagoon offers the gift of immortality, more jobs for everyone, and gills. Goodness, even I would copulate with a mackerel for gills. Who wouldn’t?
But let's proceed in order. The madman arrives in the village, where the inhabitants make it clear to him, with typical fish-like hospitality, that he's not welcome. Forced into a hasty escape from the terrible hotel where he foolishly chose to stay, surrounded by a whole traveling fish market, our hero narrowly manages to save himself. It's a pity that shortly after, with a plot twist worthy of Liala, he discovers evident fishy traces in his own family tree. The story concludes with the horrific appearance of gills on the protagonist's neck and his stoic decision to have himself cooked "all'isolana" by the intrigued neighbors. It is worth mentioning that "The Shadow Over Innsmouth" belongs to the cycle of stories dedicated by the Recluse of Providence to the Great Old Ones, unspeakable (oops, I said it...) and very cruel deities. People of few words and many tentacles, with original and easy-to-remember names I recommend to new moms for naming their babies: Cthulhu, Yog-Sothoth, Shub Niggurath, Nyarlathotep. Among the various entities in this dreadful pantheon, there is also space for an authentic Sumerian god: Dagon, a hideous cross between a man and a grouper. The inhabitants of Innsmouth seem to be its grandchildren and pray to it in a dedicated temple. Needless to say, the priests of such a welcoming place of worship are something that in Livorno would end up directly in the cacciucco.
Ok, that'll do. Sorry, I wanted to write a serious, dark, slimy review full of high-sounding words capable of evoking the shadows of hideous chthonic deities. Unfortunately, it’s not the day. I keep thinking of Monty Python and the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. I beg your pardon. But most of all, forgive me, Howard: I didn’t mean to repay you this way after all the hours I've spent in the company of your splendid nightmares... but it’s done now. Goodbye, and thanks for all the fish.
PS: "The Shadow Over Innsmouth" is on sale at the best fishmongers in New England.
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