It’s hard to imagine this today, but Harmony Korine was once considered a threat to something besides himself. The son of a PBS documentary filmmaker, he grew up trying to escape into movies, obsessively watching Godard and Fassbinder before dropping out of NYU to skateboard. Then he met Larry Clark, who persuaded him, at 19, to write Kids, the 1995 teen sex–drugs–HIV parable that was as alarming as it was voyeuristic.
Suddenly, Korine became famous, and he thought he knew what he wanted to do with it. Together with his muse and then-girlfriend, Chloë Sevigny, the runty, spacey prankster was hailed as an indie-film visionary by a Hollywood Establishment then in the market for such things, and he quickly found an audience in the press for declarations like the one he made in Cannes that year: “I’m going to make movies like nobody has ever seen before.” He was so uncooperative as a guest on The Late Show that David Letterman mused sarcastically, “You know, I could pretty much have this conversation with myself.”
"Drunk at the matinee" is a collection of candid poetry about stupid shit that we all experience from day to day.
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