The Last Journey opens with a quiet simplicity: stark title cards. The Son. The Father. They are followed by the sterile whiteness of a hospital waiting room. An MRI machine hums ominously as Lars, the father, lies still, his son Filip holding his hand. It’s a clinical, almost cold beginning, but one that sets the tone for a deeply emotional and intimate documentary that explores aging, memory, and the enduring bond between a father and son.
Tiina, Lars’ wife, delivers the first emotional blow: “We got his test results. Everything is fine … he just seems to have lost his spark.” That line lingers. It’s not illness that haunts Lars Hammar, but a slow, creeping disengagement from life itself. Retirement, once imagined as a golden age, has instead become a slow fade into passivity. Lars spends his days in a Belgian leather armchair, staring into space. “It feels like you’re just waiting to die,” Filip says, his voice cracking with frustration and sorrow.
Despite its documentary format, The Last Journey feels like a home video; warm, personal and unfiltered. The camera captures the quiet despair of a man who has lost his rhythm, his purpose. But it also captures the spark of an idea: Filip discovers his father’s old travelogues. They are vibrant, witty, full of life. In them, Lars is animated, joyful, curious. Determined to revive that spirit, Filip decides to recreate those journeys, starting with the resurrection of an old family car: a rickety orange Renault 4, affectionately labeled The Car. It’s a charmingly impractical vehicle (no AC, barely able to hit 40mph) but it becomes a vessel for something far more important than speed.
Joining them is Fredrik, Filip’s best friend, and together the trio embarks on a road trip from Köping, Sweden to Beaulieu-sur-Mer in France. The journey is both literal and metaphorical. As they drive, they listen to Lars’ old travel tapes, and slowly, almost imperceptibly, joy begins to return to his face. There’s laughter. There’s light.
But the road is not without its bumps. In Malmö, Lars suffers a fall and spends five hours on the hotel floor before help arrives. He ends up in hospital with a cracked bone, and the trip is thrown into jeopardy. “I feel useless,” Lars says. “You’re not, don’t talk nonsense,” Filip replies, but the fear is palpable. Filip is overwhelmed – not just by the logistics of the trip, but by the reality of who his father has become: frail, dependent and vulnerable.
While Lars recovers, Filip and Fredrik continue the journey, sending photos and videos to keep his spirits up. A statue of Jacques Brel in Brussels, Lars’ favourite singer, becomes a symbol of hope. Eventually, Lars gathers the strength to fly and reunite with them near the French border. In a deeply moving scene, the boys push the car while Lars steers across the border, Anthem from Chess swelling in the background. It’s a triumphant, tear-jerking moment.
In France, Lars begins to come alive again. He speaks fluent French, engages in heartfelt conversation with a local priest, and reflects on his life with newfound clarity. “You’ve started something quite beautiful,” the priest tells him, and it’s hard to disagree. The film’s emotional core lies in these quiet, intimate moments – conversations framed in tight close-ups, where every pause and glance speaks volumes.
As they reach Beaulieu-sur-Mer, the film reaches its emotional crescendo. The Mediterranean setting is idyllic, pink sunsets, azure waters, swaying palms, but it’s also haunted by memories. Lars and Filip reflect on past visits, when Lars was strong and independent. In a beautiful tribute, Fredrik arranges a video montage of messages from Lars’ former students, thanking him for his impact. He didn’t just educate – he supported and protected. It’s reminiscent of the montage sequence Cinema Paradiso, and just as powerful. Lars’ face, lit with wonder and pride, says everything. If you can make it through these moments without sobbing, you’re made of stronger stuff.
The final scenes are equally powerful in their quiet poignancy. A silhouette of father and son on the beach, the waves gently lapping at their feet. “Can we stay just a little longer?” Lars asks. It’s a simple question, but it carries the weight of a lifetime. The spark, it seems, is back.
The Last Journey is a deeply human film: funny, sad, tender and profoundly moving. It’s about aging, but also about connection, memory and the extraordinary joy of a life well lived. It perhaps serves to remind us that, even when life slows down, there’s still beauty to be found in the journey.
The Last Journey comes to UK Cinemas from the 20th June
Written by: Mary Munoz, Content Creator at Nordic Watchlist