The Last Station

Sometimes film gives literature a bad name.

Michael Hoffman’s overwrought The Last Station, based on a novel by Jay Parini, chronicles the last year of renowned author Leo Tolstoy (Christopher Plummer). Spiritually reborn late in life, Tolstoy is torn between loyalties to his wife, Countess Sofya (a glowing Helen Mirren) and his preeminent disciple, the scheming, mustache-twirling Vladimir Chertkov (Paul Giamatti). The latter is bent on convincing the author to leave custody of his life’s work to the public domain. Chertkov hires the naive Valentin Bulgakov (James McAvoy) as Tolstoy’s personal secretary to report the countess’ every effort to salvage the family inheritance. The volatile countess is meant to be so unbearable that Tolstoy famously leaves her to live halfway across the country. In despair, she flings herself into a pond to drown, but quickly regroups and boards a train to chase after him.

The film’s attempted hybrid of camp and sincerity confuses and bores. Viewers never fully relate to the characters, especially Tolstoy. As Sofya, Mirren is so likeable; her operatic histrionics are more entertaining than antagonizing. Similarly soporific are the tribulations of McAvoy’s wide-eyed Valentin, who finds himself in over his head in the household’s Byzantine dynamics. McAvoy, like his character, is caught in a war between two larger-than-life icons, though he holds his own as Mirren and Plummer rage on screen.

The general overacting under Hoffman’s direction is that of a theater play shot to film. Alhough this works in isolation, largely due to the experienced thespians, the final product is exhausting, weighed down by its sense of literary self-importance. Hoffman overstates the gravitas of his subject matter to tedious grandiosity, ultimately undermining the film’s emotional impact.

Like Sofya, we undergo a great deal of wailing and romantic nonsense, but are ultimately left a little empty inside.