Smells, Crimes, and the Strange Logic of Grief
I kept thinking, while watching The Girl Who Sees Smells, latestnetflix.com argues, that its oddest idea is also its most human one: what if the world doesn’t just wound you, but leaves a scent? Not metaphorically. Not in some airy, poetic sense.
I mean the kind of stubborn, bodily memory that follows you around, clings to your clothes, and refuses to wash out. That’s the series’ real subject, more than the hunt for a killer or the mechanics of its fantasy premise. It’s about the way trauma rewires perception.
Once you’ve been cut by something, everything else starts to smell like the cut.
What makes the show interesting — and, occasionally, slightly clumsy in the way only ambitious genre television can be — is how fully it commits to that idea. This isn’t just a crime thriller with a quirky ability attached. It’s a detective story built around sensation, where information arrives through the body before it becomes language.
That’s a neat trick, and the series knows it. The comic tone in the early stretches can be airy, almost cutesy, but it’s always shading toward unease. The smell-jokes are never only jokes.
They’re a way of making the invisible visible, or at least imaginable.
Baek Su-chan’s direction gives the show a brisk, commercial clarity, but there’s a little more thought in it than you might expect from a premise this instantly marketable. Before this, he had worked on a string of glossy melodramas and comedies, and that background shows: he likes clean setups, neat reversals, and emotional payoffs that land with a tidy snap. Here, though, he’s also working in the shadow of a bigger trend in 2015 Korean television — the popular merging of crime procedural with fantasy conceit, where the genre hook isn’t an accessory but the engine.
The result is a series that keeps asking a practical question: how do you turn a sensation into evidence?
I’m not entirely sure every episode knows the answer. Sometimes the show gets a little too pleased with its own gimmick, as if the mere existence of synesthesia and a pain-free detective should be enough to carry the scene. But when it slows down and lets the body do the talking, it’s quite sharp.
A glance at a victim’s clothes, a pause in a hallway, a character inhaling before speaking — these become the equivalent of exposition, only less deadening. That’s what I liked most. The series understands that crime dramas are often about people misreading the world.
Here, the misreading is built into the senses themselves.
There’s one recurring visual pattern that stuck with me: the way the show isolates faces in moments of concentration, then cuts to objects or spaces that seem, for a beat, to carry emotional temperature. It’s not a flashy show. The colors are fairly restrained, the lighting often practical, the camera usually content to stay out of the way.