Directed by Michael Hoffman

Uppermost in my mind as I watched this film clunk aimlessly across the screen like the charming trains which feature in its latter part, was the question, who is it for? Tolstoy fans will surely be nonplussed by the presentation of one of the greatest writers of the nineteenth century and a social thinker who had strong influence on, for example, Gandhi, as a woolly minded old codger who scarcely believes in his own ideas any more. Worse, even, is the lack of respect given to those ideas. And those with little notion of the great man - will they really have their minds or hearts engaged by the drawn out account of his last days? Aside from Helen Mirren's Oscar-nominated pyrotechnics as his ‘emotionally vivid' wife, it's a dour thing.

Our way into life with the Tolstoys is via Valentin Bulgakov (James McAvoy), an impressionable young disciple of the great man and his theories of Christian Anarchism, practised at a ‘Tolstoy Commune', where celibacy, equality of the sexes and hard work are the rule. Bur scarcely has he arrived when comely blonde Masha (Kerry Condon) gives him the look-over and next thing we know she's knocking on his door at night clad only in her shift. Predictable or what? Quite whether she ever truly bought the Christian Anarchism package is debateable, but she chops a mean log of wood, and doubtless she'll find her true metier a few years down the line when the revolution really starts. Poor old McAvoy, excellent actor that he is, seems doomed, with that pretty, open face, to forever play the well-intentioned innocent. Save him please, some casting editor. Meanwhile back at the Tolstoy homestead he's acting as secretary, a kind of spy to report on the latest enormities of the Countess who is increasingly leaning on the Great Writer (Christopher Plummer) not to give all the income of his writing to his good works but keep it in the family. Plodding would-be Chekhovian moments around the samovar articulate the arguments a little, but there's not a lot there to detain our intellectual interest, and more time is taken in the bedroom (showing how the Countess really loves him? Showing how they're both gaga? Showing what a pain in the neck she is? Who knows.)

Chief villain of the piece is Paul Giamatti at his most beamingly oleaginous as Chertkov, the Tolstoyan enthusiast who is trying to persuade the great man to sign away his money. Giamatti is always a pleasure to watch, (he even made Lady in the Water bearable) but here he's struggling with no material to provide an inner character beyond something on the lines of bad Uncle Abanazar, when it seems that the real Chertkov was actually a sincere enthusiast of Tolstyan principles. John Sessions is wasted as Tolstoy's doctor (he really should play Chekhov) though he does speak with relish the best lines in the film ‘Don't forget the specialist enema apparatus!' (pronounced in appar-ah-tus) which leads to imaginings one does not wish to follow.

Meanwhile the peasants in the background plod patiently on, doing all the real work while the posh ones argue and give meaningful looks and flop around. Still, not long to wait before the revolution. Arise, ye workers from your slumber! Meanwhile the danger to the audience of falling asleep ( a real and present one, I can tell you) is countered by Helen Mirren's regular flights into excessive Russian-ness, screaming, making barnyard noises, climbing along outside windowsills, firing a gun and and rolling into the lake. It's a heroic performance.

Always pretty to look at, finely acted against the grain of its stodgy screenplay, it is a depressing example of a British ‘heritage type' film, no fire in the belly, no curiosity about its characters, throw in some gracefully-lit sex...a bit of a waste, really.

Seen at Tyneside Cinema Newcastle, 5 March 2010