Have you ever wondered what the world might look like after civilization collapses? Not in a Hollywood blockbuster kind of way, but in a raw, unfiltered, almost poetic sense. That’s the question Pablo Behrens’s London’s Last Wilderness seems to grapple with, though perhaps not always intentionally. Personally, I think what makes this documentary fascinating is its unintentional ability to capture the eerie beauty of decay. Behrens takes us on a journey along the Thames estuary, a place that feels both forgotten and hauntingly alive. It’s not just a film about a stretch of water; it’s a meditation on what happens when humanity’s footprint is left to nature’s mercy.
One thing that immediately stands out is the juxtaposition of the wild and the industrial. The mudflats, teeming with migrating birds, sit alongside rusted power stations and abandoned fairground rides. It’s like nature is reclaiming its territory, but in slow motion. What many people don’t realize is that this kind of landscape isn’t just a relic of the past; it’s a preview of a possible future. If you take a step back and think about it, the estuary feels like a time capsule—a snapshot of what could be if we continue to neglect our environment.
The film’s narrative is told through the eyes of an unseen explorer, which adds a layer of intrigue. The camera acts as their gaze, and we’re invited to see the world through their lens—or perhaps, as the film hints, through the eyes of something not quite human. This raises a deeper question: Are we the explorers, or are we the ones being observed? The scratchy voices from a command center and the flashing coordinates on the screen give it a sci-fi edge, but it’s not always effective. In my opinion, these elements feel a bit forced, like Behrens is trying too hard to make the documentary feel experimental.
What this really suggests is that sometimes less is more. The estuary itself is already a character—its luminous mists, sunburnt teenagers splashing in the water, and the eerie Maunsell sea forts are more than enough to captivate. Speaking of those forts, they’re a highlight. Built during World War II, these rusted steel towers look like something out of Mad Max, yet they’re very real. From my perspective, they’re a perfect metaphor for the film’s themes: resilience, decay, and the passage of time.
A detail that I find especially interesting is the on-screen captions, which feel clunky and out of place. Lines like, ‘Several structures made it clear to me that this region had sustained a prolonged war,’ break the spell rather than enhance it. It’s a missed opportunity, especially when compared to the lyrical prose of someone like Iain Sinclair. But maybe that’s the point. Behrens isn’t trying to be Sinclair; he’s trying to be Behrens. And in that, there’s a certain authenticity.
If you take a step back and think about it, London’s Last Wilderness is less about the estuary and more about our relationship with the spaces we abandon. It’s a reminder that nature doesn’t need us to thrive—it just needs us to leave. What this film does best is provoke thought. It’s not perfect, and it’s certainly indulgent at times, but it’s undeniably engaging. Personally, I think its greatest strength is its ability to make you feel like you’re witnessing something both familiar and alien.
In the end, the Thames estuary isn’t just a wilderness; it’s a mirror. It reflects our past, our present, and perhaps even our future. And that, in my opinion, is what makes this documentary worth watching. It’s not just a voyage along a river—it’s a voyage into the heart of what it means to leave a mark, and what happens when that mark fades away.
