THE SOFA

Sometimes it doesn’t take much to drive a person completely over the edge.

Somewhere along the way, Munson’s trade has evolved from teenage angst to middle-aged angst. More specifically, there’s no good way to know how the author of The War Against the Assholes (2015), etc., has plummeted from his previous work—reasonably mainstream, often funny social satire—into this full-on existential crisis drama in search of a plot. Every stylistic tic of this work, from its vague, menacing plot to its slow creep into surrealism, will ring a bunch of bells for English majors and discerning horror readers but it’s a tough pill to swallow. Mr. Montessori is a well-meaning paper-pusher for an investment company who struggles to please his shrill wife and two growing boys. The family returns one night to find their titular furniture has been replaced with a poor substitute—a smelly, damp, greasy mess of a striped sofa, labeled only with a single word: “MEERVERMESSER.” The inciting incident might seem mundane but this one little change sends Mr. Montessori right off the deep end. Unable to rid himself of the cursed lounge furniture, he quickly finds mind and body unraveling as well. His neighbor, Señor Periander, disappears under mysterious circumstances. His cat is butchered by another creature. Visions of a strange fat man and the man’s hat—a bowler straight out of A Clockwork Orange, no less—begin appearing to Montessori, worsening his condition, along with a serious infection that clouds his mind. It’s suitably dark and creepy, but there’s just not enough here to hang a story on. The younger son is so superfluous he’s not even named, while the wife is a judgmental placeholder at best. There’s something to be said for a good descent into madness, but this house isn’t haunted enough to leave an impression, let alone a scar.

An unkempt, scare-free portrait of a guy losing his mind in his couch cushions.