A Crack Up at the Race Riots by Harmony Korine

By Harmony Korine

The unique Ritalin child, concord Korine burst at the scene with Kids, a movie so gritty and unsettling in its depiction of juvenile lifestyles that it was once slapped with an NC-17 score and banned in a few theaters around the kingdom. In many ways, the media frenzy over the score overshadowed the harrowing portrait of young ones destroying their lives and the then twenty-one-year-old screenwriter who created them. "Whether you spot the motion picture as a masterpiece or as sensationalism," wrote Lynn Hirshberg, "the motion picture is relentless and marvelous and very tense. It's powerful-both steel-eyed and attractive; scary and captivating."

Now, during this first booklet of fictional set items, Korine captures the fragmented moments of a lifestyles saw throughout the demented lens of media, television, and teenage obsession. Korine reinvents the radical during this hugely experimental montage of scenes that appear either genuine and surreal whilst. With a filmmaker's eye and a prankster's glee, this strange choice of jokes, half-remembered scenes, discussion fragments, motion picture principles, and suicide notes is an episodic, epigrammatic lovesong to the realm of pictures. Korine is the voice of his media-savvy iteration and A Crack-Up on the Race Riots is the satiric lovechild of his darkish mind's eye.

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Sometimes he would sit at the table and get drunk with the regulars, and when he nodded off his friends would call his wife down to get him, and she would take the elevator from the fourth floor where they had a whole suite to themselves. She never made a fuss, since it was no discredit to her—on the contrary, everybody respected her. My boss would be lying under the table or sitting in his chair asleep and she would pick him up off the floor by the collar as easily as if he were an empty coat.

So there I was, in front of the mirror in my tuxedo, the new one, and I'd put on a white starched shirt and a white bow tie, and just as I was slipping into my pocket a new nickel-plated bottle opener with a knife blade in the handle, I heard the whistle. When I went out into the courtyard, the shadow of someone jumping the fence passed quickly over me, and I felt something brush my head, and a waiter in a cutaway coat landed in front of me, got up, and rushed on, reeled in by the whistle's signal while the tails of his coat flew out behind him like beetle's wings.

For a whole week we've been lugging them from chalet to chalet up in the Krkonose Mountains, and in every decent chalet we've sold the salami slicer and a scale, and together they're a package I call a tax saver. The salesman must have liked me—perhaps I reminded him of his youth—but whenever he saw me he'd pat my head and laugh, a pleasant laugh, till tears filled his eyes. Sometimes he'd ask to have mineral water brought to his room. Whenever I brought it to him I'd find him already in his pajamas, lying on the carpet, his enormous stomach *3 beside him like a barrel.

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