Review: Last Scene.

Before we get into the review, a quick note for anyone wondering why my blog might seem to jump between topics—film, music, tech, daily life, the mystical, the mundane. The truth is, I don’t believe in accidents. I believe that everything I experience, whether profound or playful, comes into my path for a reason. I curate my reflections the way some people collect postcards or dreams, not by theme, but by feeling. Whether it’s a short film shot on a phone or a moment of stillness in a crowded day, if it stays with me, I write about it. Because in the end, it all connects.

There is a quiet kind of brilliance that lives in Hirokazu Kore-eda’s Last Scene, a short film that begins with a touch of science fiction and ends in something far more intimate. It is a meditation on legacy, memory, and the soul of storytelling. This is a film that whispers rather than shouts, yet somehow lands with the emotional force of something much larger than its short runtime.

A screenwriter, is visited by Yui, a mysterious girl from fifty years in the future. She has arrived not with a simple and urgent mission: to save the future of television drama. As their quiet conversations unfold, it becomes clear that Yui’s visit is not just about saving a medium. She is a reflection of his past and the roads not taken. She is a reminder of the power of story and a soft voice asking what happens when we forget why we started telling them in the first place.

The most affecting science fiction does not rely on spectacle or technology for its emotional weight. It asks essential questions about being human. Last Scene does exactly that. Time travel is simply the canvas. The real painting is in the silences, the unsaid regrets, the flickers of understanding between two people who meet across time. Kore-eda is less interested in narrative tricks than in emotional truth.

The performances are understated and deeply felt. The main character is weary, burdened by compromises and creative fatigue. Yui, in contrast, holds a kind of luminous sadness. Her presence feels borrowed from another time, and her eventual erasure is treated not with melodrama but with grace. When she begins to fade from existence, we are not shocked. We are moved, quietly and completely.

Visually, the film is exquisite in its simplicity. Shot entirely on the iPhone 16 Pro, Last Scene never calls attention to the device. The iPhone becomes a silent collaborator, its portability and sensitivity perfectly suited to Kore-eda’s intimate style. Natural light, soft focus, and fluid movement give the film a presence that is both immediate and dreamlike. It does not feel like it was shot on a phone. It feels like a memory we are being allowed to witness.

I have been watching Apple’s creative releases with growing admiration. First with Stormzy’s Big Man, and now with Last Scene, I find myself drawn not only to the stories but to the idea that this kind of filmmaking is accessible. The iPhone 16 Pro is not just a piece of tech. In the right hands, it is a filmmaking companion that enables rather than restricts. As someone who finds themselves daydreaming more and more about owning one, I can honestly say that it is not just about the specs. It is about the possibilities.

Last Scene is not simply a short film. It is a quiet elegy for a kind of storytelling we may be in danger of losing. It honors the past, questions the present, and gently nudges us toward the future. In just a few minutes, it gives us a reason to care again. About stories. About time. About what we leave behind.

And can we mention that yummy theme song by Vaundy?

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