The Last Station

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Biopics come in one of two forms - they either span the entire lives of their subjects (as in the recent Sex & Drugs & Rock & Roll) or portray a moment in their life. The Last Station opts for the latter but it's lack of focus and indecisiveness of tone hamper the film from becoming the joy it should have been.

The Last Station depicts the final year of Russian writer Leo Tolstoy's life as seen through the eyes of devout Tolstoyian Valentin Bulgakov (McAvoy), a virginal 23-year-old who arrives on Tolstoy's estate in 1910 on a mission. He's employed by Chertkov (Giamatti) to keep on eye on Sofya (Mirren), Tolstoy's loving wife who in turn fears that Chertkov is stealing Tolstoy's money; Chertkov has no such thing on his mind - he believes that Tolstoy's work should be available to everyone, that his writings should be in the public domain. As Valentin ingratiates himself with the family and the goings on, he falls for Masha (Kerry Condon), who lives in a Tolstoyian commune nearby...

The Last Station is a film cut in three and it's interesting watching it changing tone. The first third is of a jovial nature, bouncing along to its own rhythm as it introduces the characters and the world they live in. Plummer plays Tolstoy jolly - he's Santa minus the red suit and one expects him to whip one of his children on to his lap and give them a big kiss at any moment. McAvoy here is all clumsy, innocent, boyish and a delight. The film itself, although still undecided on what it wants to do, seems to enjoy its own existence. Then The Last Station moves into its muddled second third - the good humour begins to slip away as it takes on a more serious tone; at this point writer-director Hoffman is still determined not to lose the comic touch altogether and can't help undercutting the sober moments with a throwaway humorous line, which, to be honest, diminishes the severity of the situations he was at pains to build up. The performances move in tandem too - McAvoy ankles the little boy lost approach and begins to look older, we see a darker, more selfish side to Plummer's Tolstoy, and Mirren's 'oh, that man of mine' loses its absurdity. By the time the film moves into it's final third we're watching a tragedy.

The changes in tone aren't as seamless as Hoffman would hope. The murky middle is unfocused, flitting around the various subplots as it prepares itself for the serious run in and it's here that the audience's attention will begin to wane. There is an option to forget the loose plotting and enjoy the abundance of well-drawn and unpredictable characters played out by a flawless cast - Mirren and Plummer look and feel like a couple that's been married for 43 years with their spats and in-jokes. As hanger-ons proclaim Tolstoy Jesus, Sofya sees him as just a man... And all that implies. It's such a shame Hoffman couldn't decide what he wanted to say with The Last Station because if he figured it out he would have an Oscar contender on his hands.