It's 1910, the year of Tolstoy's death, when his fame and prestige rested as much on his revolutionary calls for passive resistance, social justice, and universal love as for his legendary literary output. Ensconced in his proto-hippie commune, Tolstoy resolves to live out the rest of his days in principled austerity, ministering to his cult of young devotees, who call themselves Tolstoyans. Leading among the Tolstoyans is priggish stuffed-shirt Chertkov (Paul Giamatti), who's succeeded in maneuvering his way into Tolstoy's good graces, convincing him to hand over the rights to his work to the public domain. But Chertkov has a fiery rival in Sofya, Tolstoy's wife of 48 years, who sees through the flattery and deification that's blinded her husband to Chertkov's designs.
Chertkov hires Valentin (James McAvoy), a young, overeager Tolstoyan, to be the writer's secretary and, more to the point, to act as his inside man, keeping an eye on Sofya. Valentin is a naïf and a virgin when he enters the commune, but becomes more sure of himself as he and Sofya grow closer. He's also defrocked of his chastity after meeting Masha (Kerry Condon), a fetching fellow Tolstoyan, who sneaks into his room one night and steals his heart for the rest of the movie. Masha is too free spirited to cling blindly to dogma and, in that sense, she may be the movie's truest Tolstoyan.
To its detriment, great sections of The Last Station are devoted to a battle for Tolstoy's estate. There's much sound and fury as Sofya -- Tolstoy's proofreader and literary muse for most of his career - fights for what's rightfully hers, while Chertkov wants the author to go out on a gesture of ultimate Tolstoyan philanthropy. These scenes lack emotional resonance and dramatic fire, because Hoffman fails to convince us how Tolstoy - considered an impeccable judge of human character - could allow himself to be seduced by sycophants like Chertkov, and how he could be so callous to his wife's anguish.
Hoffman's Tolstoy is an inconsistent (as opposed to contradictory) figure: He's got the self-awareness to admit that he's not the perfect follower of his own Christian principles, yet he can't see through someone as singularly transparent as Chertkov. As played by Giamatti, Chertkov (regardless of historical truth) is just an oily, ingratiating manipulator, no more nuanced than an old-time villain (right down to the handlebar moustache and snarling, guttural delivery). All Chertov's blustering about Mankind, Truth, and Justice is just so much academic hot air; we find ourselves wondering about the human being underneath.
McAvoy's Valentin, on the other hand, warms up nicely as he learns firsthand the emotional toll suffered by Sofya at the hands of her obstinate husband. Plummer breathes life to a Tolstoy marred by poor scripting; we sense in the actor's command of the role a vulnerability and humor that seem to exist separate from and above the material. Mirren, likewise, impresses with her game turn as Sofya, expertly modulating the comic and tragic shades of her role.
The Last Station is often pleasing to look at, however, evoking early 20th-century Russia with a loving and detailed eye. Hoffman also echoes moments from Tolstoy's own fiction in depicting the writer and his wife's relationship, from their flirtations and quarrels to scenes of illnesses - both feigned and real. Tolstoy fans may rejoice in these clever literary references. Otherwise, Hoffman makes sappy, overbearing directorial choices from start to finish. Plummer and Mirren's excellent chemistry can only do so much before our attention finally pulls away from The Last Station.
