The Last Station - Michael Hoffman

I never used to think about it, but the more movies I see from around the world, the more distracting it is when, for instance, a cast of British actors comes together to make a movie about Russian people. Stranger still is when a couple of those actors are American, doing British accents, to play Russian people. It seems that British is the default accent for all Europeans in period films, I suppose because it sounds traditional and refined, but if it is to be performed in the English language, why British accents and not Russian accents?

Oh I shouldn’t complain. When I hear actors affecting Russian accents, they usually sound like Boris and Natasha from The Bullwinkle and Rocky Show.

This is all to say that The Last Station is made by a mostly British cast. Paul Giamatti is on-hand as well, sounding every bit the proper Englishman when he introduces himself as Vladimir Chertkov. That the actors aren’t Russian and this isn’t a Russian production isn’t a criticism, per se, but it’s funny that the characters don’t have trouble reading the signs, banners, and notebooks, all written in the Cyrillic alphabet.

American Michael Hoffman directs his own screenplay, based on a biographical novel by Jay Parini. It is set at the end of the life of Russian author and philosopher Leo Tolstoy (Christopher Plummer), at which point he had largely forsaken novels to take up the cause of social justice. As introduced at the beginning of the film, the Tolstoyan lifestyle is one of asceticism and communal living. Any form of private ownership is obscene, and sexual gratification is a corrupting indulgence. It looks like a cult.

Our immediate sympathy lies with Tolstoy’s wife, Sofya (Helen Mirren), a practical woman who likes her possessions and would like to keep them long enough to leave her children an inheritance before her husband dissolves his fortune for the sake of his principles. They argue constantly; Hoffman seems to be aiming for a Lion in Winter-style portrait of an embattled marriage.

Into their lives comes an idealistic young man, Valentin (James McAvoy), who idolizes Tolstoy only to learn that his idol is a poor follower of his own philosophies and prone to the manipulations of those who would like to deify him and improve their own status in the process. The crux of the conflict is the creation of a new will. The villainous Chertkov would like Tolstoy to sign over to him the copyrights to all his written works. Chertkov believes they belong in the public domain and wants nothing more than to control that domain. Sofya wants them bequeathed to her for the continued prosperity of her and her children.

And so begins the emoting. The film is strenuously acted, by no one more than Mirren, who is not playing Sofya at all but Norma Desmond. She’s a self-dramatizing woman who howls, smashes plates, and fires gunshot rounds, but Mirren doesn’t express emotion in these scenes. She’s throwing “Look at me!” tantrums intended to have two effects: to demonstrate the grandness of Sofya’s passion, and to showcase the grandness of Mirren’s performance. But she’s so overwrought that she veers unintentionally into comedy. In one scene she throws herself into a lake out of despair; I was reminded of Catherine O’Hara in Christopher Guest’s comedy For Your Consideration, playing an actress mugging desperately for an Oscar nomination.

Because I know Mirren to be a great actress, the lion’s share of blame must instead go to the director, who calls for hysterics in scenes that require a gentler touch. The betrayal! The deceit! The undying love! Tolstoy clutches his chest and struggles for breath. He’s exhausted by the constant agita, and so are we. We’re smothered with melodrama.

Despite the loftiness of its subject matter, the story remains slight. To suggest intimacy between Leo and Sofya, instead of detailed scenes Hoffman simply raises their volume. Giamatti literally twirls his mustache as the scheming Chertkov; neither he nor Sofya seems especially fit to be the arbiter of the great author’s legacy. All this might be good fun in a film with a lighter touch, but this one insists on its own seriousness.

Kerry Condon gives my favorite performance of the film because hers is the only one that is life-sized; she’s not acting like her life depends on it. She plays Masha, a member of the Tolstoyan commune who falls in love with Valentin in a romantic subplot that is rushed but helps bring the film down to earth. From the start, Masha seems too modern to be a part of this repressed sect, and indeed she has views on the lifestyle that don’t include the Puritanical self-denials. She’s grounded and intelligent while others come unhinged around her.

Condon seemed familiar to me as I watched the film. I searched her resume on the Internet Movie Database and was reminded that the Irish actress was featured in the short-lived HBO/BBC television series Rome, where she played the sister of Caesar Augustus. For that role, she also assumed a British accent, but that was less conspicuous; it’s so hard to find native Latin-speakers these days.