The author of this ambiguous declaration was, in fact, French director François Reichenbach, who uttered these words shortly before his death, however, his friend, screenwriter Danièle Thompson, borrowed them not only for the title of the film, which she co-wrote, but also as a key to understanding it. In the film, the statement is voiced by artist Jean-Baptiste Emmerich, whose last words invite his close friends and relatives to satisfy his unusual request and accompany him on a trip to Limoges, where he wishes to be buried. Yet perhaps even before the train pulls out of Gare d’Austerlitz, it becomes apparent that seemingly charismatic Jean-Baptiste was, during his lifetime, uncommonly spiteful, manipulative and probably also cruel. He managed to assemble in one place the people he loved, those he was loved by and whose rivalry for his favour he enjoyed provoking. The train passengers include an art historian and his beau, an aging woman who is convinced that she was the deceased’s only love, the artist’s nephew with his estranged wife, former lovers and friends… A dozen or so characters find themselves in a confined space as jolting as their emotions; they set off on a journey together, thus becoming the victims of the last prank of a man travelling in a sealed coffin – by car. The train ride, the funeral in "the largest cemetery in the world” and, finally, the "snack” in the sprawling family home: These are the three acts screenwriters Chéreau and Thompson chose for their superbly staged (and César Best Directed) melodrama, in which the day of mourning becomes not only a catalyst for the various relationships involving the deceased, but also a melting pot of personal problems for everyone concerned.