Seeking to bring some joy into the life of his elderly father, retired Swedish schoolteacher Lars, Filip Hammar – together with best friend and fellow filmmaker Fredrik Wikingsson – takes him on a road trip to France to revisit cherished family memories. In chronicling this adventure, The Last Journey depicts the painful realities of old age, the profound quality of memory and the challenge of leaving the past behind.

Speaking to directors Hammar and Wikingsson, MIFF Publications Manager David Heslin asks about the film’s themes and development, and how its playful sensibility contrasts with the Swedish cinema of the past.

I wanted to start off by asking where you first developed the idea of telling this story – particularly something so intimate and close to home.

Filip Hammar: This was something I had decided to do privately with my dad. I had reached a point where I was almost getting a bit desperate. You see your dad and how he’s slowly disappearing – not because of dementia, but he’s always giving up, you know. Nothing helps; he’s constantly just looping everything. I talked to my mum and said, “I think I’m going to go on a trip with my dad; we should go to France.” He loves France. Then I spoke to Fredrik, because we’re best friends, and I just mentioned this. Since we’re filmmakers, I guess, you always take that into consideration: “Is there a story here?” And then we started talking about it, and it dawned on us that, yeah, there could be a story here.

Fredrik Wikingsson: Also, because his father is such a unique person. He’s a very original character and also a kind man. It seemed to us there was a story there that we hadn’t seen, and maybe this little journey could work wonders for him. It seemed interesting, and hopefully relatable.

How did Lars first react to the idea of the project, and about being on camera?

FH: It was a bit overwhelming for him when I suggested this, and I would never have forced him to do it. But when you’re depressed, I think it’s easier to say no than yes; that’s just your standard response to everything. It took some convincing, but, in the end, it was him making the decision. And then when it comes to, “Hey, can we film this as well?” … I don’t know, he’s a very generous man, and he’s so kind, so I think that was almost easier.

FW: There’s a bit of a performer in him as well, because he was such a beloved teacher for 40 years. It was a bit like the Robin Williams character in Dead Poets Society: the charismatic, raconteur-type teacher who loved having an audience.

FH: That’s true. If you’ve been a teacher, you’re used to talking to a crowd. A crowd is not a camera; but, still, you want to inspire people, and you also want to make people laugh. It was like he got his first job in many, many years.

Above: Filip Hammar and Fredrik Wikingsson in The Last Journey  |  Header: Filip Hammar and his father Lars Hammar in The Last Journey

It’s a film largely about the complicated nature of nostalgia and ageing, and how it’s impossible to relive the past. Were those ideas that you wanted to explore from the beginning, or did they more emerge as the film progressed?

FW: Very late, I would say.

FH: But I knew what we wanted to do. In retrospect, it might come off as naive if I thought that going on a road trip with my dad and having him re-experience some of the best moments of his life would actually work. But I still thought this method might be it.

FW: When we started, that was it, really: “What’s going to happen? Could this work?” But then, during the trip and as late as in editing, we realised that this is also about the impossibility of chasing the past. There was something I said to Filip during the trip that didn’t make it to the final cut: “[You think you’re doing] this trip for your dad’s benefit, but I think your father is doing this trip for your benefit as well.” Because Filip thinks it’s about his dad re-experiencing things, but it’s also Filip desperately wanting to experience things with his dad before it’s too late.

FH: I think it’s also about coming to terms with something we know but we don’t want to really confess to, which is that nobody is here forever – and that harsh fact that one day, it’s over. But we don’t want to think about that. We push that in front of us. I think that’s why I had this idea: it was basically to make my life easier as well.

I don’t know if we discovered that once we were done, but it took a little while. I have not been lying to Fredrik in the past when he said, “Well, he is a little weaker now, isn’t he; he’s not the same kind of guy,” and I’ve said, “Well, it’s just depression, you know; there will be this big comeback.” But once you’re making this film, you realise: no, that’s not the way it is – let’s enjoy every chapter in life, even though the last remaining chapters are not as vibrant as the previous ones. I think, maybe, when [people] see a film like this, it can help them deal with the harsh reality of life.

Above: Lars Hammar, Filip Hammar and Fredrik Wikingsson in The Last Journey

Both of you have worked in TV for 25 years now. What was it like making this foray to the big screen, and what do you find are the benefits and challenges of working in that mode?

FW: Well, we’ve made a couple of films before, and sometimes you have an idea and you feel, “This might be a podcast; this might be a TV series,” and there are occasions where you feel, “This is a 90-minute movie.” There are challenges, of course; but if it’s in cinemas, you can take your time a little bit more, and be a little more … I don’t want to say poetic, but you don’t have to have that cut to tempo all the time, which I feel like you have to do if you do something with Netflix.

FH: In order for your job to be rewarding, you need to challenge yourself. You can’t just do the same thing over and over again. If we also realise that it might be a hard sell – will anyone be interested in helping us finance this? – we really thrive in that. It’s a tall mountain to climb; but once we reach the top of the mountain, it’s going to be better in a way. Because we’ve done a lot, but we have never done anything like this. We’d been open with who we are before, but [this] was a story we’d never told.

Swedish cinema, as it was seen in Australia and other English-speaking countries in past generations, was obviously shaped in a big way by the films of Ingmar Bergman: very serious, very melancholy. So I expect this might be a very different kind of Swedish film for people here and elsewhere. Did you think about that at all?

FW: We sought a grant from the Swedish Film Institute to get this film financed, and we got a hard “no” immediately, even though we’ve made successful films before. The reasoning for that was: “We’re not interested, because this documentary seems to contain elements of humour,” which was anathema to them. So there is a serious tradition within that Swedish Film Institute building. But, for us, it’s always been a given to try to infuse humour and lightheartedness to make [something] more accessible, even though you handle a heavy topic. Because you want to do that as well – you want to make something relevant.

FH: I definitely haven’t gone through [Bergman’s] entire catalogue, but the thing I really appreciate in his films is usually the humour. But what he didn’t have is feelgood. You don’t associate Swedish filmmaking with feelgood; this is more like an ABBA song, but with a little bit of darkness to it.

FW: Don’t compare this movie to Swedish cinema; compare it to Swedish music. Compare it to ABBA, if you will, because they’re very fucking popular.

It certainly seems to have resonated with Swedish audiences.

FH: Did we mention that it’s the biggest documentary of all time?

FW: I don’t think we mentioned that, but we sure did now!