“ I’m interested in films and jazz. Cities.’
‘Cities?’
‘Yes. American cities.’
‘What about American cities?’
‘How they fail.’ ”

The Long Take is an incredibly raw look at the post-war experience, illustrating the particular trials and tribulations felt after the second world war ended, specifically as the veterans of the war returned to their home countries and tried to rebuild their lives. Written in verse, an epic of mini proportions, Robin Robertson lyrical writing conjures beautiful images of the american cities, New York, Los Angeles and San Francisco, while discussing the very real issues that arose after the war was over, and that became contemporary in this day and age.

“We won the war, but we’re living like we lost it.” (*)

The story we follow comes from the point of view of Walker, one of the “lucky ones” that managed to survive the war. A canadian from Nova Scotia, Walker can’t bring himself to return home, preferring instead to try and start anew, an attempt to strip himself of the horrors he has lived, done and witnessed.

“ ‘You had a girl back home, in Nova Scotia. You gonna see her again?’
Walker took a long pull on his bottle, tapped out another cigarette, lit it, drew in deeply; blew. ‘I can’t, Billy. The island. My family. Annie. It’s all gone now.’ He stared hard at the floor. ‘I can’t let her see me. What I’ve become.’ ”

“ He could not call her back to his life: which is a horror, which is the dead calf in the bank-head field, a black flap bubbling with maggots, ugly and wrong. ”

It is clear, through instances like the quote below (in a metaphorical way, but there’s also some very real examples of Walker being startled by sudden and loud noises), that Walker is struggling with PTSD, and as the book advances and his journey does too, we begin to get more and more often transported to his recollections of war, narrated to us through the sporadic moments of prove in this otherwise novel in verse.

“ This is not the worst. The worst is the hall of mirrors where you catch sight of yourself, twisted, swollen, unrecognizable. (...) It’s the worst thing in the world, catching sight of yourself. ”

Starting in New York, Walker witnesses for the first time the reality of many veterans who have returned home: with an incredible keen eye and jarring imagery, we get to know the dark side of society, through the image of a city, not only the beautiful, clean and rich side of it, but also, and mostly, the dark corners, the filth and the misery, the prostitution and the abandoned boroughs where most veterans come to live, homeless, after they are unable to reintegrate back into society.

After, he is transported to Los Angeles, where he finds a job working as a journalist to the Press, which in turn lead him to San Francisco. However, Los Angeles truly is the main character in this book; New York, Los Angeles, San Francisco: the cities are characters all of their own, alive, changing, decaying.

“And then he felt a presence behind him. Turning round, he saw the city, stretching out below.”

It was that sense of pulsating atmosphere that really enhanced the experience for me; the idea that the city is always watching, always changing, growing, like a human, falling, crumbling, like Walker does.

“Building and demolition seem to happen here within the span of a human life – so citizens can either watch their own mortal decline, or see themselves outliving their cities.”

“The city is constantly changing, blocks being bought and sold, demolished and rebuilt, so it has no memory: it knows only this timeless present.”

In a text that relies mostly on the beauty of its language, Robertson excels at it spectacularly. Although poetry is not my strongest suit, I have always had the idea that poets have a way with words that excels, seers through the pages and manages to touch the heart of the reader. The Long Take did nothing if not confirm that theory: even if some of the images were shocking and unpleasant, Robin Robertson’s unflinching fragility made it easier to swallow. For example:

“(...) one slash opened the black guy’s buttock like a plum, then this neat stab to the throat and with it a twisting rope so hot it steamed as it splashed on the cobbles; the blood that ran out of him till he ran out of blood.”

Taking this quote to continue the discussion of the book’s themes, besides the issue of homelessness and displacement that, while not in this particular context, will always be a contemporary and, unfortunately, long-lived issue, Robinson also tackles the tensions that follow the war: the 50s and 60s were eras of incredible racial and political tension, particularly in the United States, where the social rights movement made history and the cold war would start to brew. We get glimpses of those important issues in this text, a passage about McCarthyism that really stuck with me:

“ ‘McCarthyism is fascism. Exactly the same. Propaganda and lies, opening divisions, fueling fear, paranoia. Just like the thirties: a state of emergency, followed by fascism, followed by war. You’ve just defeated Hitler. Can’t anyone see you’ve made another, all of your own?’ ”

And if we look at the current political and social climate in the US particularly, right now, we can see how contemporary all these issues are, even if, again, played out with some minor differences:

“ America has to have its monsters, so we can zone them, segregate them, if possible, shoot them. ”

However, what made me think of this novel as an incredibly powerful achievement in portraying the reality of the 50s was the apparent amount of research the writer did in order to make it authentic: long descriptions of the city transport you right back into them, even if you’ve never visited them, even if you can’t know how they look now or in the fifties. But while that shows the amount of dedication and love for the american cities cited above, it can also be a detriment to the book and the reader who isn’t all that interested in the noir and the film era often associated with this period. There are an excruciating amount of little “cameos”, nods to movies and directors and scenes and actors of Old Hollywood, that while charming to those who know them, can just be overwhelming to those who don’t (I fell somewhat in between). Those, at times, kept me from fully enjoying the book and the character's journey. For that reason, I don’t think this is a book for everyone.

I couldn’t complete this review without mentioning another small aspect of this book that completely won me over: the beauty in it isn't exclusive to the prose. As a photography enthusiast, I loved the pictures at the beginning of every chapter, which helped the continuous transportation to another times, another atmosphere.

Overall, The Long Take is a tremendous achievement that should be read and enjoyed, a book that needs the readers full attention and commitment but that, in the end, will absolutely pay off.


(*) All the quotes should be written in verse but for some reason my eBook didn’t retain the format of the text so although the transcribed quotes appear to be written in prose, know this is not how they are presented in the book.