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I want to preface this by confessing I have yet to watch the final theatrical version of SWING SHIFT, so everything stated here-in will strictly pertain to the elusive Demme cut, which was made graciously accessible to me by a cherished friend. I do intend to double-back in the near future to consume and compare both after I delve a little deeper into the varied accounts of this troubled production.
It’s a rough-hewn but rewarding watch, with a surface narrative that is just the tip of its gargantuan subtextual iceberg. Demme personalizes the changing sociopolitical discord of 1940s America through the lens of three disparate individuals who converge and establish an unlikely rapport: Kay (Hawn), a restless housewife; Hazel (Lahti), an uninhibited chartreuse; and Lucky, an aspiring jazz musician who moonlights as a shift supervisor in the factory where both women work. The threesome is no more than a carefully calculated farce designed to cushion the film’s central romance between Kay and Hazel. Subtle intimation between blossoms into full on flirtation and flamboyant displays of affection, incrementally phasing Lucky out until he is but an emotional casualty. The progression abstractly courts the contradictory and often mercurial treatment of queerness as a discretional “open secret.”
The movie opens at the tail end of the U.S. isolationist period, before the war reached American shores. Kay and Hazel are pre-acquainted, yet incredibly cold and disapproving toward one-another on account of their opposite lifestyles. The arrival of Pearl Harbor serves as an important inflection point, and its consequences become the very impetus that puts them into close proximity. Kay’s husband abruptly departs for the war, casually suggesting she take up work on his departure. She’s initially apprehensive but eventually swayed and motivated by a growing morale. She arrives at the factory and is unexpectedly greeted by Hazel, and the two are forced to put their differences aside to collaborate for the greater good. Enter Lucky, our third player, who heads their operation.
Kay and Hazel become exceptionally close, bonding over newly discovered common ground. They grow stronger through their shared womanhood, blossoming under one another. Kay comes to respect and admire Hazel’s tough demeanor and self-reliance, and Hazel finds value and appreciation in vulnerability. They are inseparable, freely maneuvering through a temporarily liberated America where gender norms are null and void as if they were man and wife.
I particularly adore this queer diversion and all the focus Demme grants it — Russell is nothing more than ornamental background throughout the film’s first half, which affords Hawn and Lahti the focused intimacy necessary for their relationship to flourish. The camera, too, suggests a deeper flirtation by framing them from and center. Their shared chemistry is overt but never explicit: rather, it’s expressed through shared smiles, gentle caresses, and telling gestures. At a function dance, Kay turns down a co-worker in favor of accompanying Hazel. The two even share in a handsy waltz, giggling like school girls as they share a knowing look. They have special pet names reserved for one-another: to the world, they are Kay and Hazel, but to each other they are Kiwi and Haze.
Alas, nothing gold can stay, and Lucky eventually re-enters the picture. He’s grown closer with both women, especially after they witness his playing at one of their dance outings. The twosome grows into a cohesive threesome despite Kay and Lucky emerging as the prevailing couple. Their union is free-spirited, hinging on the impermanent climate to maximize each and every joyous moment. Kay is able to finally find herself through both Hazel and Lucky, abandoning her restrictive inhibitions once she recognizes how largely her marriage is lacking. Nothing else seems to largely matter so long as the three are together, happy, safe, and comfortable within their relationship, erecting a psychological barrier and adopting a willful blindness toward all else in the world. It shatters asunder when Kay’s husband returns unexpectedly from the front, grounding all three from their indulgent reverie come to life. Now having to face the consequences of her liaison, Kay struggles with guilt and largely withdraws from the group in order to keep up appearances with her husband. The rising tensions between the couple begin to fester, coming to a fever pitch when Kay expresses pride in her newfound autonomy. Angry and jealous, he accuses Hazel — “that Tramp” — of corrupting her behavior. Kay’s passionate and aggressive defense is a veiled declaration of love, affirming and fortifying the underlying subtext and suggesting they shared more than just a friendship. It’s even more telling that she expresses immediate regret, pivoting to confess her dalliance with Lucky in subliminal self-defense.
Just like everything else in the film, Kay’s freedom is fleeting, and she regresses in an attempt to comply with returning normalcy. Still, remnants of the past remain firmly rooted in memory, incessant whispers that feed off of a mounting unhappiness. Kay is desperate to be understood, to feel safe, turning not to Lucky in her time of duress, but Hazel. The two reconvene in their old spot, yet a palpable unease weighs heavy in the air. Both women know something has shifted before either one speaks, but silence keeps the rosy illusion of their past alive. They share wistful gazes and cocktails as Lucky’s horn wails a maudlin paean in the distance.
Finally, the music fades to a gentle standstill, prompting Hazel to offer Kay a cigarette, which she accepts with delight. Lucky approaches from the stage and joins the two. A considerably inebriated Kay descends into a jealous tirade, expressing belated betrayal and anger over their union. She barely addresses Lucky, instead directing all her emotion toward Hazel. When she accuses Hazel of not being a good friend, Hazel defensively retaliates, likening it to her marital infidelity and subsequently sublimating her own envy in the process. Lucky attempts to intervene but is unsuccessful, for both women have been entirely usurped by the intensity of their quarrel. This is the film’s melodramatic peak, and Demme reserves no subtlety here in conveying that they are the true subjects of the film’s romance.
Hazel leaves abruptly and is followed immediately by Kay, who is still ranting and raving in a drunken tizzy. She beratingly calls her a whore; Hazel turns around to reciprocate the favor. Both women fall into a screaming match, culminating in a metaphorical outing when Kay accuses Hazel of never having had a boyfriend or husband. “There’s nothing wrong with me, Kay,” she answers, voice calm but quivering, “and I don’t care what happens to him, or what happens to you … so why don’t you just go away, okay?” As she attempts to climb into a cab, Kay sloppily tries to wrestle her back, but instead falls down onto the pavement in disorientation. “I was in love!” Kay shouts as Hazel speeds away, which she dismisses with an angry “Shut up!”
Kay stumbles upward to discover that Lucky has reappeared, and recoils from his steadying grip before collapsing in defeat and exhaustion. He takes her back to his place, where she awakens later with horrific guilt. Shortly thereafter the War concludes, consequently leaving the women without a job. Kay makes amends with her husband, yet still appears aloof and forlorn. Hazel marries her former employer and Kay makes a cordial appearance even though they haven’t spoken since falling out. She is anxious to speak to Hazel but cannot muster the courage to do so, instead having her husband act as intermediary to relay the message. The entire ordeal causes her to drift outside in a bid to compose herself, knowing now that a confrontation is inevitable.
When Hazel approaches, Kay’s demeanor reflexively softens. Both women stand idle for a moment before falling into a mutual embrace, sharing in joy and sorrow as they finally reconcile. Kay lovingly caresses Hazel’s cheek as they gently rock back and forth. As they inch closer, the camera retreats, panning outward. Suburban greenery dissolves into warm swathes of orange and pink. A lavish sunset intimately envelopes a beach, barren save for one amorphous shadow composed of two silhouettes — a conclusive echo of temperamental queer tolerance. It’s a massively maudlin farewell to the end of an ephemerally liberating era, soon to be swallowed whole by communistic fearmongering and its consequential enforcement of adherence to conservative tradition. Kay and Hazel will have to taper their relationship to meet societal standards, using their marriages as protective cover from persecution.
Demme’s artistry is impressive and self-reflexive, a farce within a farce subliminally examining queer survival. SWING SHIFT is a queer romance couched in a superficial rom-com and a prodigious accomplishment that epitomizes the art of subversion and its historic importance as a contradictory conduit of authentic expression.
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