ed to meet their old friend and work colleague, Genio (Andrea Pennacchi), who’s flying in the following morning, returning to Italy after an extended self-imposed exile in Argentina. Along the way, the duo engages in a series of unfocused, largely pointless drinking-related encounters with assorted strangers, most notably a sheepish young architecture student, Giulio (Filippo Scotti), whom they take under their wing and adopt as a sort of reluctant hearty partying initiate. The trio thus continues on their inebriated merry way during which they seek out more wayward adventures, and, in the process, the ring leaders of this alcohol-soaked binge gradually share Genio’s story with their new pal, even though the details they provide remain somewhat sketchy, especially in terms of how they relate to the overall story. In essence, most of the rest of the narrative depicts Giulio’s emergence from his self-constructed shell in becoming “a man.” However, considering the questionable character of his decidedly disreputable role models, are they truly stand-up examples of something to which Guilio should aspire? Now, I have nothing against looking for a good time, but is their brand of drunken, unbridled hedonism something to emulate? By the time the end of this release finally rolls around, it’s easy to see how one might be ready to swear off drinking. Clearly, this offering doesn’t know what it’s trying to say, where it wants to go and how it’s seeking to get there. Much of the fault here rests squarely with the story and screenplay, both of which are ineptly constructed, partly because they desperately try to incorporate too much material and partly because they send dubious messages. What’s more, just when things start getting interesting – when the particulars of Genio’s story start to surface, after a seemingly endless 45 opening minutes – the faucet of details dries up all too quickly and is never really revisited in any substantive way. This 2025 Cannes Film Festival Un Certain Regard nominee also makes occasional seemingly valiant attempts at incorporating a measure of allegedly philosophical observations, mostly served up from the bottom of a shot glass, that largely collapse under the weight of their own vacuous insights. Indeed, “The Last One for the Road” might like to believe that it’s a source of profound wisdom when, in fact, it’s little more than a protracted exercise in calling for additional rounds of revelations that never surface.