The Corner

A.J.Soprano

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Burnt SUVs, Swimming Pools, Dominican dimes and Al

IronFist

πŸ‰β›©οΈ π•Ώπ–π–Š 𝕴𝖒𝖒𝖔𝖗𝖙𝖆𝖑 ⛩️ πŸ‰
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book is way more grittier than the book. certain things they left out of the series should've been incorporated.
 

Kid McNamara

'97 Mike Bibby
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there basically the same imo. i view this as the prequel.
The wire 2000s
The Corner 1990s

and that spike lee/martin scorsese film that the filmmakers credited as the work that inspired them to make these shows. forget the name tho but that movie was :wow: underrated
I'm probably over analyzing, but I would add more nuance to this statement. I know Simon certainly admitted to using certain shots from Clockers in The Wire; but Simon and Price (the author of the book Clockers) were observing and writing about this stuff long before Spike Lee came along with the film.

Either way, the ending of David Simon's eulogy is beyond words:

Well then, amid all of the easy labels and stereotypes that will now certainly apply, let me offer only the following: I once had the privilege to know a boy named DeAndre McCullough, who at the age of fifteen had led a life of considerable deprivation, but who nonetheless was the fine and fascinating measure of a human soul. Everything after, even the very book that we wrote about his world, today seems like useless and unimportant commentary.

Be free, Dre.
 

Kid McNamara

'97 Mike Bibby
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If you've yet to read Homicide, Clockers, or The Corner you are definitely missing out:

Clockers:
Like Peanut earlier in the day, trying to make a little extra selling bottles one for ten instead of two for ten during Happy Hour. On each clip he had been pulling in a hundred instead of fifty, then turning over forty and pocketing sixty, until some pipehead came up to Strike and said, "I thought it be "HappyHour." Strike looked at Peanut now, sulking on the comer, demoted to raising up -looking out for the Fury — a fiat twenty-dollar gig, no bottles, no commission. Watching Peanut probe the raw bump on his cheekbone, Strike swung into his usual recitation: Sneaker dealers, pipeheads, juveniles. Stickup artists, girls, theFury. You can't trust nobody, so keep your back to the wall and your eyes open — 24, 7, 365.

Homicide:
Pellegrini shoots back a look that Landsman ignores. The Cavalier slips past block after block of rowhouse ghetto, rolling down Druid Hill Avenue until it crosses Martin Luther King Boulevard and the Western District gives way to the early morning emptiness of downtown. The chill is keeping them in; even the drunks are gone from the Howard Street benches. Pellegrini slows before running every light until he catches the red signal at Lexington and Calvert, a few blocks from headquarters, where a lone whore, unmistakably a transvestite, gestures furtively at the car from the doorway of a corner office.

The Corner:
All across the west side, the distinct reports of individual shots now blend into cacophony. Down Fayette Street toward the harbor, and up Fulton toward the expressway, the bright orange-yellow of muzzle flashes speckles from the front steps, windows and rooftops.
...
The hour approaches, and the great, layered dissonance grows even louder, the flashes of light racing up and down the streets as visible proof of this explosive percussion. It is a sound both strange and familiar: the signature sound of our time, the prideful, swelling cannonade of this failed century. Shanghai. Warsaw. Beirut. Sarajevo. And now, in this particular moment of celebration, West Baltimore.
 
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