If movies could take IQ tests, Nick Mead's "Swing" would get minus-points. Incompetent, overlong and pointless, it's the only film I've seen that thinks a keyboard is a brass instrument. I'm sickened by the knowledge that it was filmed right here, in our great city of Liverpool, and some wonderful 70s furniture was wasted in creating its sets.
Of course, there isn't much reason for the movie to be set in Liverpool, and it isn't even set in the 70s. The latter factor doesn't bother me much, since the bits of dated decor were nice to look at, and the double-decade regression in fashions mirrors the arrested development of the characters. They're morons, plainly and simply, speaking their nonsensical dialogue like forced zombies, except for the odd cliché, like "I want you to have this..." or "You didn't think I'd wait for you forever, did you?"
The film exists in no genre known to man, with not enough jokes to be a comedy, plot to be a drama or romance to be a love story. Its situation involves Martin Luxton (Hugo Speer), who's getting out of jail as the film opens, and being given a saxophone by cellmate Jack (Clarence Clemons). Martin decides to form a swing band, and as he informs the neighbourhood, we meet his circle of family and friends. His mother and father, the ones with the 70s furniture, are unfathomable; his brother Liam, who develops a mean streak in the last act, had an accidental hand in getting Martin locked up; the love of his life, Joan (Lisa Stansfield), has married his odd arresting officer; and a lively neighbourhood kid, Buddy (Scott Williams), has developed the despicable dream of wanting to play for Manchester United.
You'd think Martin would despair around this bunch of losers, like I did, but he keeps his dream alive, sporting a simpleton's smarmy grin and the kind of confidence that nobody as stupid as him should have. In its assortment of cretinous oafs, "Swing" contains an impotent sadist cop, a twitchy British Nationalist, fat Orangemen thugs -- but bewilderingly glosses over them, insisting to exist as silly fluff. I don't know why the filmmakers think sexual inadequacy, racism or any of the other issues beneath their characters' surfaces can be ignored, but they can't, and their inclusion is distracting when not dealt with.
The interesting Clarence Clemons is criminally underused, appearing mostly in odd cutaways, to recite some "how to" formulas. Hugo Speer, overused, doesn't bring the presence to Martin that a lead role requires, and made more of an impression with his less substantial turn in "The Full Monty". Lisa Stansfield, a successful singer early in this decade, carries herself appropriately, but her performance is marred by a sound mixer who hates her, and synchs her speaking voice in a strange manner. Most of the exterior scenes, in fact, see all the actors' voices lip-synched worse than in Z-grade monster movies, although the supporting performance of arrogant comedian Alexei Sayle gives all flaws a run for their money in the ridiculousness department.
There are, inevitably, some nice musical numbers, but "Swing" has virtually nothing else going for it. I'm tempted to give it my lowest rating of half a star, but it gets a whole one, since the feeling it left me with was not one of passionate hatred. I simply didn't care.