For those who may not know, Waters is an American filmmaker, actor, fellow homosexual, and premiere aficionado of “good bad taste.”
Liarmouth is not John’s—does he mind if I call him John?—first book, but it is his first novel—a novel that describes itself as a “feel-bad romance.” When I type “feel-bad romance” into Google, every item on the first page of results is Liarmouth, but don’t approach this novel as a pioneer into a new sub-genre.
Liarmouth tells the story of the beautiful, intelligent, and middle-aged Marsha Sprinkle, a professional liar, con-artist, and woman repulsed by the idea of sexual intercourse; her repulsion comes from an unsatisfying marriage, and from having to give birth to her now estranged child, Poppy.
After a botched con, Marsha and her sexually-frustrated employee in crime, Daryl (and eventually Daryl’s sentient penis), find themselves on the lamb and must con Marsha’s unwanted daughter out of her identity and money in order escape the boys-in-blue. Poppy, furious that her mother has wrecking-balled her way back into Poppy’s life, decides that the only way she’ll find peace is to join a cult of bouncing enthusiasts and kill her mother. Will she succeed?
A roadtrip comedy of sorts that takes the reader from the unfurnished basement of a sex pervert, to a buttocks appreciation festival, and all the off-color places in between.
The novel moves at a quick pace, as Waters has written a pure comedy. No sentimental moments, no thoughtful reflections—Waters wants only to make you laugh as you clasp your pearls. That’s not to say the book is stupid. Waters invents a world worthy of deeper discussion, but not necessarily a world that asks for it.
Now you might be thinking, “that sounds zany and all, but where is the ‘romance’ promised by the subtitle?” While a romance does develop between Marsha and a Wolf-Man, that plot-line is fully contained within the final fifth of the book. You’ll “feel bad” by the novel’s end—in a fun way—but the “romance” part hardly seems important enough to warrant a subtitle. But playing devil’s advocate to myself, I don’t think anyone is coming to John Waters for authentic romance. Perhaps the subtitle “a feel-bad romance” isn’t meant to explain what the book is, so much as prep the reader for this absurd, contradictory world Waters creates. And absurdity is where the novel shines.
Liarmouth is not character driven, or plot driven—it is absurdity driven. The characters are fun, but not deep, and plot points interfere only when absolutely necessary. Absurdity—irreverent, nonsensical randomness—is the driving force. And rest assured, this is intentional. John Waters has been practicing the bizarre and bad-taste his whole career, and the absurdity in Liarmouth shows it.
All in all, Liarmouth is humorous schlock that doesn’t try to be, or want to be, taken seriously. However, anyone looking for an intentionally-trashy satire of romance, as the subtitle suggests, will have to get their fix elsewhere.
I’ll also warn long-time fans of John Waters, as I doubt this book will be terribly shocking or inventive when compared to Waters’s works like Pink Flamingos or Multiple Maniacs. It’s more of what you love, but nothing you haven’t seen.
So if you’re in the mood to laugh at a bit of sometimes-offensive lunacy, or if your life isn’t NSFW enough, then you’ll have a good ride. Check it out.
