The Long Take

One of my favorites this year so far. The Long Take (2018; also known as A Way to Lose More Slowly) is a novel in narrative poetry form by Scottish poet Robin Robertson. Set in New York, Chicago, and LA in the 1940s after the war, the story follows protagonist Walker, who suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder and horrific memories of carnage in the 1944 invasion of Normandy. He's from Nova Scotia but won't go back. And he wanders like a beatnik, westward to California.

"Cities are a kind of war," he thinks, in the way they're sometimes "far away then, quickly, very close." The themes of cities, mainly LA, and the destruction of war form much of the narrative's latticework, and the story-line swings us between rich, striking descriptions of both.

Walker takes on various jobs, a reporter for one, writing articles about the homeless who get swept aside to make room for urban development. Other characters include Pike (another reporter) and Glassface, whose face was torched by Hitler Youth.

There's a dreamy noir-ishness in Robertson's writing in the The Long Take, and some parts feel like T.S. Eliot (particularly The Waste Land). It's well researched and the dialogue stands out for its economy and gritty authenticity. I enjoy film noir from the 40s/50s, so I liked the many references to the genre and its actors, directors, and filming locations, as well as such pictures as Naked City, Out of the Past, The Big Combo, and Kiss Me Deadly. The combination of verse and prose gives the work multiple rhythms that flow and intertwine, leaving sharp images, some contrasting, some melding, and the desire to read it a second time.

Naked City

A heavy case... A heavy, heavy case... So veteran detective Dan Muldoon (Barry Fitzgerald) tells novice cop Det.

They've been called to Jean Dexter's apartment, where they discover the former model was chloroformed then drowned in her own bathtub, with no clues left behind by the pair who murdered her. Noir in the way it's shot (inspired by the work of street photographer Weegee), though more of a police drama with a documentary style, Naked City (1948) brims with bold shots of locations across the Big Apple. As a police procedural it's rather dull from a modern perspective, and the plot doesn't give us so much in the way of twists or whodunit mystery, as we more or less know who the bad guys are (one of them gets bumped off by the other right at the beginning). But what makes it worth watching is the imagery of the city, including aerial shots, and it won the Oscar for Best Cinematography. The lilting narration (by the film's producer, Mark Hellinger, who died of a heart attack at 44, apparently just after watching the final cut) has a cynical, ironical edge to it. And the New Yorker stereotypes depicted are amusing for how they bite—the fat kid eating an ice cream cone, the two Brooklyn betties aimlessly window shopping and nattering on, the liars, the nuts, the swindlers.

It's all right, not great, but it has it's moments. I don't recall seeing Barry Fitzgerald in a movie before this one. He commands attention as the old-fashioned, never-jaded gentleman. Dorothy Hart (pictured below) was a treat in her small role; I was surprised to read later that she never made it to lead actress status. The end satisfies. Rating it alongside other late 40s films I've seen, I give it three of five stars.

Key Largo

Bogie and Bacall shine in this 1948 noir set in Key Largo, but Edward G. Robinson steals the spotlight.

Frank McCloud (Bogart), a brooding army vet, arrives at the Hotel Largo, owned by the family of a friend who died fighting with him in the war. Nora Temple (Bacall), who's the widow of that friend, and her father have a few guests when Frank gets there, even though it's off season and the place is more or less closed. There's also a massive hurricane about to hit, so the six visitors and now Frank must hole up together while the weather rages. A couple cops are around too, popping in to check if anyone has spotted the Osceola brothers, a pair of Seminoles on the run and trying to join their own family before the "big blow" comes through.

Edward G. Robinson plays Johnny Rocco, a gangster who's been exiled to Cuba and, for some reason I must've missed, is now in Florida and wants to get back to Cuba after collecting a bagful of counterfeit dough from his associates in Miami. (I suppose he was there only to pick up the cash and that no one told him or his crew about the storm.) Robinson gives the standout performance, while the characters played by Bogie and Bacall as well as the others sort of form a circle around Rocco in the hotel lobby/lounge and follow his lead. There's also the former showgirl-turned-lush Gaye Dawn (Claire Trevor). Rocco brought her along on the trip but decides to ditch her because he sees her as washed-up baggage and an all-round pain in the ass. (Trevor won the Academy Award for Best Actress in a Supporting Role for the film.) As the storm intensifies and windows and boats get smashed, trigger fingers get fidgety and we're drawn to the edge of our seats.

The tension builds in Key Largo and keeps building until the end. John Huston wrote the script, based on a 1939 play (same name) by Maxwell Anderson. The film flows like a play, with lots of quippy dialogue and most of the story unfolding in one room, and then on the boat Santana. I liked it particularly for its play-like feel mixed with hurricane footage (apparently reused from a film with Ronald Reagan) and lighting and sound effects to give the storm character—ominous and noir. Not one to remember Bogart by especially, or Bacall for that matter, but a solid thriller with a forceful performance by Robinson (and Trevor to a lesser extent).