The plot organization is meant to play to Johnson's strengths. As a director, his metier is character; he loves actors and has obviously prevailed on Jackson to dial down his patented flourishes. His absurdly named Hondo comes from the old television show (as do Street, Kaye and McCabe). Jackson's Rhythm Heritage confidence brings to mind the burbling funk of the SWAT theme song.
The director shows a marrow-deep confidence, too, on occasion in the scenes with the actors gabbing and getting to know one another, letting their defenses down. Yet the performances aren't informed by the affection he has for his cast.
As an actor Johnson was a regular on the television series Homicide, he and Jon Polito were the first characters heard, and their goony squabbling set the tone for the show. There's no dialogue here as good as their arguing over Lincoln's assassination; much of the talk in this SWAT seems to have been lifted verbatim from crummy 70s cop shows or The Facts of Life. McCabe informs a date, "I may work in the mud, but I certainly like to play in the clouds."
Certainly Johnson doesn't have a real taste for action; much of the by-the-yard martial choreography is strictly by the book, as Hondo's martinet captain might say. The director almost seems to be rejecting the movie's right-wing politics, and his discomfort is palpable, like Danny Glover's slight hesitations in the Lethal Weapon movies.
SWAT is mostly standard-issue muddle, right down to setting a crucial sequence in the Los Angeles subway. Most Angelenos probably think the subway was built for film crews; it's used more in the movies than in real life. And the underground scene takes so long, you may start to wonder if the cast will emerge in another Aaron Spelling product, Fantasy Island. That would make sense, since this movie is as natural as the virgin polyester fibers in Ricardo Montalban's suits.
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