The Long Take: A noir narrative

“A propulsive verbal tour de force . . . A hymn to destruction that exposes our country’s betrayal of the American Dream in the years following World War II. [Robertson] places Walker’s world on a continuum of postwar abusive power that still resonates today, while also reminding the reader of older instances of displacement such as the Trail of Tears and Scotland’s Sutherland clearances. The Long Take conveys dignity upon its less than noble characters because they’ve been dispossessed by outside forces. . . . When was the last time you said of a book of poetry, ‘I couldn’t put it down?’ Well, now’s your chance.” —Sibbie O’Sullivan, The Washington Post “A remarkable work . . . I can’t think of anything quite like itxa0 . . . Modern, complex, political . . . [Robertson’s] language is functional and often exquisite . . . Though rooted in a specific time and place, The Long Take ’s larger theme is the capacity of greed and politics to turn hope into despair . . . A poem that’s long been waiting to be written.” —Woody Haut, Los Angeles Review of Books "As far as books go it’s A-1. I recommend it." — Nico Walker, author of Cherry “Robertson has cast a national, cultural, psychological and class outsider of vibrant and seedy post-war America into a palpable anti-hero eerily resonant with our contemporary world. With syncopated rhythms, staccato dialogue and jump-scenes, the book weaves dizzying, jazz-like meditations on PTSD, masculinity, betrayal and salvation by embodying, in sound, scent and sixth-sense, one of America’s most hopeful and devastating decades. The result is a ravishing achievement.” —Ocean Vuong “[A] lyrical masterpiece . . . Robertson has written a book that manages to be epic and elegiac, and suffused with savagery and beauty.” — Malcolm Forbes, Minneapolis Star Tribune “A seamless and masterly sequence.” —Dayton Hare, Michigan Daily “The wondrous story of a Canadian veteran of the second world war who washes up in New York and then Los Angeles—told mostly in verse. Walker, the protagonist, is haunted by his experiences in combat and by memories of his youth, and pained by the neglect of the homeless in California. Probably the best novel of the year.” — The Economist (“Books of the Year”) “Bold, brilliant, filled with wonderful imagery and meticulously researched, this is as poignant and visual as classic film noir.” — Ian Rankin “Superlative.” — Justine Jordan, The Guardian “Books of the Year” "This book will shift something in your soul. By the time you have finished reading it, you won’t quite be the same." — Elif Shafak, Goldsmiths Prize judge “A beautiful, vigorous and achingly melancholy hymn to the common man that is as unexpected as it is daring. Here we have a poet, at the peak of his symphonic powers, taking a great risk, and succeeding gloriously . . . The Long Take is a masterly work of art, exciting, colourful, fast-paced – the old-time movie reviewer’s vocabulary is apt to the case – and almost unbearably moving.” — John Banville, Thexa0Guardian “Hypnotic and wrenching . . . Robertson transforms the long take into an epic taking of life, liberty, reason, and hope in this saga of a good man broken by war and a city savaged by greed, an arresting and gorgeously lyrical and disquieting tale of brutal authenticity, hard-won compassion, and stygian splendor.” —Donna Seaman, Booklist (starred review) “Immaculately researched . . . Walker is a superbly rounded character, and his tale one worth telling . . . Moving and engrossing.” —Rory Waterman, The Times Literary Supplement “Absolutely stunning . . . [Robertson’s] beautiful verse describes things better than any picture could . . . The language is astonishing.” —Arifa Akbar, BBC, Front Row “Robertson’s deliberate, atmospheric verse narrative soars with an emphatic grandeur more usually found in symphonic music . . . As a work of art, this dreamlike exploration is a triumph; as a timely allegory, it is disturbingly profound . . . Robertson’s The Long Take is one of the first major achievements of 21st-century English-language literature.” —Eileen Battersby, Financial Times “A blisteringly beautiful vision of America rotting in the aftermath of the Second World War . . . Robertson's book is stylish, daring, high concept and amazing.” — Evening Standard “Robertson’s The Long Take shows it is perfectly possible to write poetry which is both accessible and subtle, which has a genuine moral and social conscience without sacrificing the polished nature of the language to soundbite and cliché.” —Stuart Kelly, Scotland on Sunday “[Robertson’s] writing is a charged marriage of precision and wildness, of meticulous architecture and unbridled energy . . . writing of extraordinary sensuality . . . In this cinepoetic narrative, lyric is the long take, while the lift and fall of the feet of the wounded tell stories of hope and loss.” — Felicity Plunkett, The Australian "Robertson's The Long Take shows it is perfectly possible to write poetry which is both accessible and subtle, which has a genuine moral and social conscience without sacrificing the polished nature of the language to soundbite and cliché . . . A major achievement." —Stuart Kelly, The Scotsman “A sustained tribute to the cinematic art of light and dark.” —Jeremy Noel-Tod, Sunday Times “[A] flashpoint in U.S. history, an almost perfect mirror image of the nation today . . . The Long Take remarkably captures linguistic styles of 1940s American writing—Saroyan and Steinbeck. As it progresses into the mid-50s we’re hearing Ginsberg and Baldwin . . . You will be washed in all these when you read this poem.” —Todd McEwen, Sunday Herald ROBIN ROBERTSON was brought up on the northeast coast of Scotland and now lives in London. A Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature, he has published five collections of poetry and has received a number of honors, including the Petrarca-Preis, the E. M. Forster Award from the American Academy of Arts and Letters, and all three Forward Prizes. His selected poems, Sailing the Forest , was published in 2014. In the UK, The Long Take has won the 2018 Roehampton Poetry Prize and the Goldsmiths Prize for Fiction, and was shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize. www.robinrobertson.co.uk Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. from Part II: 1948 The heat was gone. They could feel it. There was a hectic joy downtown, a release. King Eddy’s six-deep at the bar and still coming. xa0 ‘Okay, guys. Best killing in the movies.’ ‘Tommy Udo! It’s gotta be Tommy Udo!’ ‘That’s up there, sure, but how about Raw Deal when the broad gets the flambé in the face?’ ‘Didn’t kill her, though.’ ‘What about T-Men , when The Schemer gets cooked in the steam-room?’ ‘Nice . . .’ ‘That other film of his, the Western, what’s it called? Border Incident ! That’s got a death by tractor .’ ‘Or Union Station , half a mile away – death by cattle stampede!’ ‘I like that shoot-out in the hall of mirrors . . . ’ ‘Nah, too classy. I’d vote for Decoy – Jean Gillie crushing her boyfriend with her car.’ ‘Yeah, or that chesty dame with the ice-pick, Janis Carter.’ ‘He survived . . .’ ‘I’d take Raymond Burr in Desperate . Great movie. The way he goes over the stair-rail at the end and drops four flights. That’s a lulu.’ ‘Well, if you’re talking stairs it’s gotta be Tommy Udo, c’mon . . . ’ ‘Yeah: hard to beat that – tying an old lady to her wheelchair then pushing her down a flight of stairs. Widmark’s first film, and he was dynamite .’ ‘Okay. All agreed? Right. Kiss of Death . Udo gets the cake.’ xa0 * He remembered the German on the barricade who took a magnesium flare in the chest and went up like a bonfire: so white you couldn’t look, but you couldn’t quite look away. * xa0 He dreamt the mountains were on fire and the flames were gliding down the sides like lava, the mountains were slipping into the sea which was on fire, into the city, which was also burning, and the ground opened up then and he dreamt that he walked away, streets full of stones, and he saw a black man black with flame, black leaves falling all around him: a black autumn, coming down. And Pike, he dreamt of Pike, pinning him by the throat to the ground, with a knife. And then he woke. xa0 * xa0 There was a new crack through the tiles in the bathroom, running in a straight line from the window to the door. xa0 * xa0 He was working nights at the Press , nights out on the street, sharpening now after the turn in the year, the air loosened after the rain, the pavement black and glinting. There were parts of the city that were pure blocks of darkness, where light would slip in like a blade to nick it, carve it open: a thin stiletto, then a spill of white; the diagonal gash of a shadow, shearing; the jagged angle sliding over itself to close; the flick-knife of a watchman’s torch, the long gasp of headlights from nowhere, their yawning light – then just as quickly their falling away: closed over, swallowed by the oiled, engraining, leaden dark. He hears someone running but there’s no one there. His shadow folds into the wall, then along it. Then gone. xa0 * xa0 ‘Hey, Walker. Wanted in Overholt’s office.’ xa0 He went through, past the juniors: Pike, talking over the top of everyone, repeating his punch-line louder each time, harder. The old man was checking finals, but he pushed them aside. ‘Very well, Walker, you can go this summer. Up to San Francisco. I like what you’ve done here on this homeless issue, so we’ll use you as a stringer, see how it goes. I want a big piece on this, on the whole thing.’ ‘You mean the destitute?’ ‘Yes. Out on the streets while the mayor and the police commissioner are fine-dining in Chasen’s or Musso’s Back Room. I mean the fact that two thirds of this city is a fenced-off ghetto; that there’s graft and corruption running right the way through. I mean the fact that this is a country where there aren’t enough homes, enough jobs, where one in six Angelenos are ex-servicemen and they’re lying out on Skid Row – but all anyone ever talks about is watching for Russians, HUAC locking up half of Hollywood, the government building more bombs. We won the war, but we’re living like we lost it.’ xa0 He stood, and went to the window. ‘Things are hotting up, Walker. It’s a good time to go.’ Read more