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USA 1998
Reviewed by Leslie Felperin
Our synopses give away the plot in full, including surprise twists.
Liverpool, the present. Having served time in prison for robbing a building society, Martin Luxford is released on parole. Inside Martin mastered the saxophone under the tutelage of his cellmate Jack. Determined to start a swing band, Martin recruits: as singer, his ex-girlfriend Joan, who married Andy, the policeman who arrested him; footballing wannabe Buddy on double bass; skinhead Oi on drums; and a brass section of Orange-Lodge members led by Mac. Although the band's first gig at a heavy-metal pub flops, their next at a posh hotel goes down swimmingly until police, led by the jealous Andy, 'provoke' a riot.
Disgusted with Andy's actions, Joan leaves him for Martin. At the group's next gig, at a venue owned by lottery-winner Arnold, Martin's dour parents dance together. But Martin argues with his brother Liam, the real instigator of the building-society job who robbed Arnold to pay the band. Martin returns to prison for violating his parole by street-fighting, but when he's released the band welcome him back. They play a triumphant gig, this time joined by Jack on saxophone.
The swing-band standard of the same name preaches, "It ain't what you do, it's the way that you do it" - advice the makers of Swing ought to have meditated on before assembling such a lazily derivative effort as this. A Liverpool-based facsimile of The Commitments, incorporating a goodly wodge of trite 'let's do the show right here' tropes from countless musicals, Swing's narrative tiredness might have been more forgivable if the dialogue by its screenwriter and first-time director Nick Mead (co-screenwriter of Parting Shots) were better. As it is, the film's idea of humour barely rises above having a mother enjoin her daughter to bring her date in the house to "shag him" in Italian. Mead's pass at putting a lump in our throats consists of corny exchanges between the film's scally ex-con protagonist Martin his parents, girlfriends and bandmates, reaching an apogee of banality when Martin proclaims that swing "brings back a world of innocence and optimism". This clunker of a line is trumped with worse when someone asks if he thinks swing music can change the world. "No, but it can change the way you feel!" he replies.
This wilful naïveté seems imposed to make the film more palatable for a broader audience when, ironically, all the elements are in place to make something sharper and more intriguing. Boosted by a key scene in the movie Swingers where the protagonist finds his true love on an LA swing-club dancefloor, swing music and the big-band sound are suddenly moderately hip again, indexed by that measuring stick of commodified style, a Gap advert featuring the music. The final scene here features extras drawn from regulars at London's 100 Club, throwing impressive shapes on the floor. What a shame Swing didn't revolve more around this nostalgia-saturated subculture. Instead, Martin appears to have thought of reviving swing all by himself. It's not inconceivable that a jailbird from the city where everyone "thinks they can write [music] like Lennon and McCartney," would do such a thing. But such a choice needs more back story than that he shared a cell with Clarence Clemons' jazz Yoda figure.
Swing's overqualified cast of established thespians (Rita Tushingham, Tom Bell) and refugees from the soap opera Brookside struggle nobly with what they've got. Lisa Stansfield elevates the soundtrack elegantly with her gutsy singing and the film with her surprisingly competent acting. (Although it would have helped if she was allowed to show just a little nervousness as we're meant to believe that she hasn't sung since auditioning for Guys and Dolls at school.)
Mead speaks in the production notes of trying to create a sympathetic working-class milieu. It's a laudable intention, and perhaps explains the equally endearing, playing-to-the-balcony portrait of the police as moronic thugs. Perhaps explanatory footage was lost in the editing, but given that Britain is currently fraught with sectarianism and racially-motivated terrorist attacks, it seems especially ill-advised to release a movie in which every National-Front skinhead and (marginally more acceptable) Orange-Lodge member we meet comes up cuddly. And they don't even bat an eyelid when a black man joins their ranks at the end. Jazz has traditionally been a forgiving, colour-blind artform, but this overestimates its powers.