Few films which are labelled with “experimental” and “unique”, are as deserving of the status as Last and First Men. The late composer Johann Johannsson, renowned for his equally moving and moody soundtracks for Prisoners, Sicario, Blade Runner 2049 and more, tragically passed in 2018, and his directorial debut has since been completed and shared. Inspired by the 1930 novel of the same name, Johannsson’s film is ambitious but minimal in equal measure. Considering its naturally hefty concept of human extinction in the far future, Last and First Men is ultimately devastating, but not in ways you may expect.
Films I refer to/potentially spoil in this article:
– Last and First Men (dir. Johann Johannsson, 2020)
– Prisoners (dir. Denis Villeneuve, 2013)
– Sicario (dir. Denis Villeneuve, 2015)
– Blade Runner 2049 (dir. Denis Villeneuve, 2017)
Images that may spring to mind when contemplating the definitive end to humankind are most likely dissimilar to how Johannsson depicts it. For a film about our absolute demise, not a single human is on screen at any point. A single humanoid does narrate this journey, however, and that human is voiced by Tilda Swinton who, unsurprisingly, delivers superbly in her sombre and peaceful yet bordering on defeated and tired voiceover. Essentially, her character is one of many, as she personifies other abstract and inanimate forms, punctuating their importance in allowing our species to survive, these “characters” being the cosmos and the planet.
In ways which are simultaneously depressing and sobering, Johannsson brings life to this confirmation of certain death. Despite being set twenty million thousand years in the future, the planet is filmed in a regressive format. Grainy black and white film vaguely details the distant mountains, rolling hills in the background and strange architecture and monuments in the foreground. It’s these unique structures that occupy the screen for the near entirety of the film. Sometimes, the otherworldly creations are related to Swinton’s narration, such as a sequence near the opening describing the appearance and characteristics of her future humanoid race, which is paired with shots of statues that appear to have quizzically expressed faces in their post-modern-like depiction. Some sequences, however, rely on Johannsson’s more renowned talents to guide us through scenes, which is the soundtrack. Last and First Men is a gloriously satisfying example of a film paying attention to visual and audio cues. In some sequences more than others, Johannsson’s score is overwhelming in how perfectly attentive it is to what’s happening on screen. In tune with the meditatively slow camera movements, mostly composed of steady zooms, calming twists and turns, many have likened Johannsson’s directorial effort as more of an installation piece as opposed to a 70-minute feature.
There is no objective answer to what it “should” be, other than how you personally respond to the piece, however, it’s easy to empathise with those that believe the film would be better suited to a form different to cinema. However, it’s this self-inflicted minimalism that allows your imagination to flourish and explore the described future. It’s a visual audiobook, a thoroughly articulate yet ambiguous journey, a dystopian yet triumphant guided meditation where the outcome after the adventure is still inner peace, despite having taken you to the end of our collective existence.
Last and First Men is one of the most unlikely relevant films of 2020; that infamous duration of time is a fitting year of release considering it reflected our insecurities regarding our species’ terrified unification under the unknown threat that continues to challenge our lives and way of living. Admirably, Johannsson manages to enable a hopeful sense of unity amid this collective panic. As we have learned as a species in the past year, we are all the same creature that could fall to the same thing, regardless of individual status. In fact, according to Swinton’s narration, it is in these moments within the “flash” of our species’ existence that our significance is punctuated, when everyone is subject to the same “celestial event”. The decision to interpret this as devastating or accurate is up to you; there is no clear agenda here that Johannsson pushes us towards in this futuristic faux-documentary. Though if there is an agenda, it’s in reminding us that nothing is eternal and not to fear that; our stone achievements, such as the monuments depicted throughout the film, will long outlive us and our futile conflicts.
Johannsson executes his unique vision in a seemingly effortless way, a meticulously imaginative concept that will most likely linger in your memory for a long time to come. It acts as many things but, arguably, a perhaps necessary reminder of individual mortality beyond our control. The film details the acknowledgement of death and summarises this as a “triumphant love for our fate”. Knowing when you are going to die instils a unit of time that most of us are unaware of, and consequently a measuring device. In Last and First Men, the future humanoid species can fully come to terms with and comprehend their death, hence the triumphant embrace of it. It perceives death as a steady return to our collective cosmic parents.
Calming? Reassuring? Terrifying? All of the above? How a 70-minute film depicting nothing but abstract architecture is one of the most striking and moving pictures I’ve seen this year is a surprising and wonderful achievement. It’s a beautiful documentation of rigidity meeting malleability, the metaphorical stone structures standing immobilised against the weather abstractly personifying mankind’s self-perception. A unique and fantastic collaboration of artistic mediums, with, needless to say, a phenomenal soundtrack. The Children/Land Of The Young sequence is one that I wish I could watch again for the first time. Stick with it and you’ll be rewarded with an uninvited existential crisis.
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