Director: Michael Hoffman (Soap Dish, One Fine Day, A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream, The Emperor’s Club, Game 6)
Novel: Jay Parini
Screenplay: Michael Hoffman
Producers: Jens Meurer, Bonnie Arnold, Chris Curling
Starring: James McAvoy, Christopher Plummer, Helen Mirren, Paul Giamatti, Anne-Marie Duff, Kerry Condon
MPAA Rating: R
Running time: 112 min.
The Last Station is going to be a difficult tightrope for a lot of folks to balance across (through) and is a tough movie to pinpoint exactly what kind of mood it wants to convey. At times a rather serious dramatic tale of relational turmoil and betrayal while at others a whimsical tale of hero worship and young (and old) romance. Both of these aspects of the movie teeter back and forth between melodrama and ham fisted tom-foolery. It works at points if viewed through the eyes of someone not taking it at all too serious.
Leo Tolstoy’s older years have not been reveled in all that much; that I’m aware of anyway. Years after writing the masterpieces, “War and Peace” and “Anna Karenina,” Tolstoy (Christopher Plummer) has tried to resort himself to a life of relative isolation and sans material possessions despite living rather luxuriously in a comfortable size estate with all of the amenities that life could afford at the time. Wanting to rid himself of such things as he finds it blasphemous to be so hypocritical, he plans to renounce his entire estate and personal belongings, including the
rights to all of his written works to the Tolstoyan movement he founded that teaches passive resistance and social equality. Heading up that operation (and an almost cult-like convent residing just off the grounds of the main estate) is Vladimir Chertkov (Paul Giamatti). Tolstoy’s wife, played by the very fetching Dame Helen Mirren, lives on quite the opposite end of the political and social spectrum than her husband and believes that after 40 years of marriage and bearing 13 children, the money and personal belongings should stay within the family. Back handed political posturing, suspicion and spying between these two camps mount as Chertkov recruits young Tolstoyan “fantatic,” Valentin Bulgakov (James McAvoy), to insinuate himself within Tolstoy’s life and gather all the information he can on The Countess. A side plot focusing on Valentin’s sexual maturation and exploration within the commune, comments on the hypocrisy and arguable absurdity of the entire movement.
Not serious enough to be a real arthouse drama and not capricous enough to be considered a romp exactly, the only true amount of pleasure that can be derived from the film comes from the performances; most specifically those of Plummer and Mirren. It seems they’re given almost free reign to ham it up as much as possible and it is positively delightful. The pair’s Oscar nominations are no fluke as they’re actually able to transcend what would otherwise be a very mediocre (at best) film into something halfway interesting. Of course one can’t count out Giamatti’s mustache-curling, slippery, snake-like way of trying desperately to politically position himself into power under the guise of sympathy for Tolstoy’s works. While I normally enjoy McAvoy’s work, he’s a bit too corny and almost unnecessary in this particular picture. He does his best but in the end (through really no fault of his own) simply comes off as confused as to what he’s supposed to be doing in the picture – which one, I suppose, could argue is the essence of his character; but nonetheless is disengaging.
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