SWING

There are films that require grand sets, swelling soundtracks, and elaborate plot twists to keep us engaged. And then there are films like "Swing," which remind us how little is actually needed to make us lean forward and feel seen. Serhii Malyk’s short drama-comedy, set almost entirely on a near-empty beach, strips cinema down to two characters, a stretch of sand, and an idea so sharp in its simplicity that it becomes universal: the uneasy dance of wanting to connect, and not knowing how.

The premise couldn’t be more ordinary—one man glued to his phone, the other itching for his attention—yet within minutes the situation feels absurdly funny and quietly tragic all at once. The “battle” between the two plays out less like a straightforward conversation and more like a tug-of-war of need, ego, and miscommunication. Every attempt to bridge the gap somehow makes it wider. Every word lands both as a joke and a jab. It’s comic timing delivered with the sting of truth, the kind that makes you laugh and wince in the same breath.

What makes "Swing" so effective is its refusal to offer resolution. The dialogue isn’t about progress—it’s about rhythm.

Like the endless motion of the swing itself, their exchanges rock back and forth, circling the same ground, never quite arriving anywhere new. And yet, within that stasis, the film captures something that feels profoundly human. How many of our own conversations do we repeat endlessly, saying much but revealing little? How often do we speak to be heard, but not to listen?

Visually, the film heightens this contradiction. The beach is open, radiant, and serene—an expanse that suggests freedom and possibility—yet the interaction at its center feels claustrophobic, almost trapped. The juxtaposition creates a strange, dissonant tension: here, in paradise, two people remain locked in an invisible cage of words and silences. It’s absurd, yes, but also unsettlingly familiar.

What lingers is the mood. Malyk doesn’t treat his characters with cruelty or mockery; instead, he frames them with a gentle absurdism, as if to say: this is all of us, isn’t it? The film holds a mirror to the maddening loops we spin in our search for intimacy—how we push, provoke, joke, deflect, anything but admit our rawest needs out loud. The swing becomes a metaphor not just for their conversation, but for every relationship teetering between closeness and collapse, each motion a reminder of how connection can feel both inevitable and impossible.

At thirteen minutes, "Swing" manages to say more about communication, loneliness, and the comic futility of human interaction than many features do in two hours. It’s witty, it’s piercing, and it leaves you unsettled in the best way: laughing at the absurdity of these men, while recognizing something uncomfortable of yourself in them. This isn’t just a film you watch—it’s one you carry with you, like a phrase you overheard on a beach that won’t stop echoing long after the tide has gone out.