Hirokazu Kore-eda Last Scene - The Future of Storytelling in Kore-eda’s "Last Scene"

Cover for Kore-eda Hirokazu's film for Apple "Last Scene"

What if one unfinished script could decide the future of television drama? That’s the premise of Hirokazu Kore-eda’s short film, Last Scene. On the surface, it’s a 28-minute time-travel short film. But underneath, it’s something bigger — a reflection on legacy, on the fragile place of television in our culture, and on how the stories we tell today shape the future.

I want to explore how Last Scene uses a simple sci-fi device to ask a profound question: what does the future of storytelling look like — and who’s responsible for keeping it alive?

Let’s start with some context. Last Scene was released in 2025 as part of Apple’s ‘Shot on iPhone’ campaign, meant to showcase the filmmaking power of the iPhone 16 Pro. But this is no ordinary product advertisement — it’s directed by Hirokazu Kore-eda, the Japanese auteur behind films like Shoplifters, After Life, and Nobody Knows. His work often centers on family, memory, and the quiet drama of everyday life.

What makes Kore-eda special is his ability to blend realism with gentle touches of fantasy — blurring the line between the ordinary and the extraordinary. Last Scene fits perfectly into this tradition. Yes, it has time travel. But at its heart, it’s about people. About what we pass down, and what might be lost along the way.

The story follows Kurata, an aspiring screenwriter working on a television drama. One day, he’s visited by Yui — a young woman who claims to be his granddaughter, traveling back from fifty years in the future. She has one mission: to convince him to rewrite the ending of his script. Because if he doesn’t, she warns, television drama as a genre will disappear altogether.

“That’s all you really need to know going in. It’s not a genre-defining spectacle. It’s not about paradoxes or timelines. Instead, it’s a story about what remains and what disappears in the future. That being said, the story does have some underlying themes that further enhance this concept.

The first of these underlying themes is the legacy of storytelling. Kurata isn’t just writing for today’s audience. The film reminds us that every story we put into the world has ripples — shaping not just the present, but also what future generations inherit. Similarly to how the stories of Ken Loach and Hóu Xiàoxián shaped the filmmaking of Kore-eda, and how Kore-eda himself is shaping the future landscape of cinema.

The second theme is the fragility of art. For added context, television and its ratings are much more relevant in Japan than in the West. Kurata is extremely concerned by the rating of the drama that he is writing the script for, as television is the factor upon which creatives like himself are judged in Japan. But in an age of endless streaming, viral shorts, and algorithm-driven feeds, its place feels precarious. Last Scene takes that anxiety and turns it into a narrative — what happens if people simply stop believing in a certain kind of story?

There’s also the theme of time and responsibility. The idea is that the choices of one creator today can change the artistic landscape tomorrow. And with that comes pressure — do we play it safe, or do we risk everything for something meaningful? Yui travels back in time not only to save her grandmother's career but also, as she says, more importantly, the future of dramas in broadcast television despite the existential consequences that this change will have on her own present.

Towards the conclusion of the first scene, Kurata and Yui engage in a fascinating dialogue about the nature of dramas. Are they considered an art form, or, as Kurata suggests, are they products crafted for widespread enjoyment? This debate has persisted for years within the film and television industry. The ongoing Scorsese versus Marvel discussion echoes this concept, emphasizing the necessity of creating movies and television as "products" for mass consumption, which subsequently enables the creation of "art." I love how Kore-eda structured and filmed this entire opening scene to not only set up the plot of the movie but to drop these nuggets of self-reflection that seep through the entire short.

And finally, Kore-eda grounds all of this in hope through the everyday. Rather than showing us grand futuristic visions, he roots the film in small, human details: a meal shared in a diner, a conversation on a Ferris wheel, the quiet act of writing itself. These gestures remind us that storytelling isn’t abstract — it’s born in ordinary places, through ordinary people.

Now, there’s another layer worth talking about. Last Scene was shot entirely on the iPhone 16 Pro. On one hand, that’s marketing and a great paycheque. But on the other hand, it becomes part of the film’s message. Kore-eda is saying: the tools of storytelling are evolving. Cameras, formats, platforms — they’ll keep changing. But what matters is whether people still care enough to tell stories at all.

The film makes use of the iPhone’s Cinematic Mode and all the features that came with that. Yet Kore-eda keeps the look natural and unvarnished. Apple choosing Kore-eda for a project like this makes complete sense to me, and he would have been my pick if I were in their marketing team. His minimal, clean, and observational style fits Apple's aesthetic like a glove.

Regarding style, the award-winning Director of Photography and frequent Kore-eda collaborator, Mikiya Takimoto, is responsible for the cinematography of this film. Takimoto has previously collaborated with Kore-eda on projects like Asura, Like Father Like Son, and The Third Murder. In the behind-the-scenes video released by Apple, it was intriguing to learn how Takimoto adapted his workflow to use the iPhone as the primary filming tool. Even though the story is relatively dark, the tone is comedic and light, which is reflected in Takimoto's cinematography. The look and feel of the short is airy and light, and includes Kore-eda's signature ocean views and intimate shots.

So what does Last Scene tell us about the future of storytelling? That it’s fragile, yes — easily lost in a sea of distractions. But it’s also enduring, as long as there are people willing to nurture it, fight for it, and pass it down. Kore-eda reminds us that stories aren’t just entertainment. They’re connections across time — from one generation to the next.

And that brings me back to the question I started with. If you could save one kind of story for the future — one genre, one tradition, one form — what would it be? And what would you use? A cheese-stuffed hamburger steak?

Shot on iPhone 16 Pro | "Last Scene" A Film by Kore-eda Hirokazu | Apple