NN.Paul McCartney & Ringo Starr Reveal Untold Stories in Netflix’s Emotional New Documentary “The Long Road Home”

The stage lights rise over an empty Abbey Road Studio — Paul’s Hofner resting in the corner, Ringo’s  drum kit glowing beneath a single spotlight. This is where the story begins. Netflix, in partnership with Apple Corps Ltd., has officially announced a new global documentary titled “THE LONG ROAD HOME.” For the first time, Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr sit together to confront the memories, the miracles, and the wounds that shaped their lives after The Beatles. The trailer opens with tape hiss, an old reel turning. Paul laughs softly; Ringo wipes his eyes. Then — silence.

💬 “We’ve carried these stories for a long time,” Paul whispers. “Maybe it’s time to let them go.”

The camera drifts across the dim quiet of Abbey Road Studio, the most famous creative room in modern music — yet tonight, it feels like a cathedral. The walls seem to breathe with memories. A single spotlight burns down on Ringo Starr’s drum kit, its chrome shimmering like a relic. In the corner, Paul McCartney’s Hofner bass rests in its stand, aged, dignified, almost watching.

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This is where the story begins.

Not with applause, not with screaming crowds, not with the electric roar that defined an era — but with stillness. With the echo of what once was. And now, with the promise of what may be told for the first time.

Netflix, in partnership with Apple Corps Ltd., has announced a new global documentary: “THE LONG ROAD HOME.” A title that feels less like marketing and more like inevitability. For the first time in decades — perhaps ever — Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr sit together not to perform, not to reminisce for cameras, but to confront the memories that have followed them like shadows.

The trailer opens with tape hiss.

A reel spins.

A soft whir fills the room.

Then Paul’s voice — fragile, younger, trapped in the hiss of an old recording. It fades into present-day Paul, now 83, chuckling under his breath as he rubs his eyes. Ringo, seated beside him, taps one ringed finger against his knee, fighting emotion.

A moment of silence falls between them — the kind that says everything.

Then Paul breaks it.

“We’ve carried these stories for a long time,” he whispers.

“Maybe it’s time to let them go.”

The trailer cuts to black.

What follows is a journey no fan, no historian, no music scholar ever believed would be captured on film. Directors from Netflix’s award-winning documentary division guide the last two Beatles through a pilgrimage that spans continents and decades. They walk through the streets of Liverpool like two aging ghosts returning to the place where they were once boys with bicycles and impossible dreams. They revisit the smoky basement clubs, the cellars, the dim corners where their lives intertwined long before the world knew their names.

From Liverpool, the film follows them to New York — the city that once held John’s laughter, his anger, his brilliance. The camera lingers as Paul stands by the Dakota. His face tightens with memory. Ringo places a hand on his shoulder. No words are exchanged. None are needed.

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And then — the archives.

Private vaults. Unreleased reels. Forgotten footage.

Moments too intimate, too painful, or too sacred to ever show.

Until now.

The documentary reveals handwritten letters from George, old tapes of studio fights, film from the final days at the Apple rooftop that no one has ever seen. A recording labeled simply “John — last take,” discovered in a box untouched since 1978. Photographs of the four of them laughing so hard they could barely breathe, long before tragedy reshaped everything.

The film doesn’t shy away from wounds, either.

It can’t — not if it intends to tell the truth.

We see Paul struggle as he describes the day the band fractured beyond repair. We see Ringo pause mid-sentence when asked about 1980 — that December night the world felt like it had been sliced open. He swallows. Looks down. Then finally, quietly:

“I still hear his voice sometimes.”

From grief to healing, from fame to the quiet aftermath of legend, “THE LONG ROAD HOME” threads together a mosaic of two men who survived what four boys created. It explores the price of being part of history. The burden of being the ones left to remember it.

One of the film’s most powerful sequences takes place back inside Abbey Road. Paul and Ringo sit at the piano where “Let It Be” was born. The same keys. The same bench. Paul’s fingers rest gently above the ivory, trembling — not from age, but from memory.

“I can still hear him,” Paul murmurs, meaning John, meaning George, meaning all the voices that once filled this room.

Ringo nods, eyes shining.

“Me too.”

The directors don’t treat these men as icons. They treat them as humans who walked through fire, fame, heartbreak, and survival. The documentary becomes a meditation on the strange loneliness of outliving the people who shaped your soul.

Yet it is also astonishingly warm.

We watch Paul tease Ringo about his drumming. We see Ringo laugh so hard he wipes tears from his beard. We witness them walk across the Abbey Road crosswalk together, slowly, quietly — two older men retracing the steps that once shook the world.

It is not nostalgia.

It is not mythmaking.

It is closure.

In its final frames, the camera returns to the empty studio. The Hofner. The drums. The silence. And the world finally understands:

This isn’t just a documentary.

It is the last chapter — written by the last two men who lived it.

A farewell.

A confession.

A gift.

“THE LONG ROAD HOME.”

The end of an era.

And the echo of a story that will never truly fade.