By Katie Datko
AFI FEST Daily News

Mention the author Leo Tolstoy to an American audience and immediately the image of a bearded Russian author known for dense and lengthy narratives comes to mind. Tragedy, comedy; the human condition encapsulated in a thousand-page tome. Tolstoy’s true legacy, however, is not only literary in nature but is also as a leading force for social change and equality in Russian society at the beginning of the 20th century. His later works spoke of asceticism, an ideology of non-violence rooted in Christian thought, which in turn inspired his secretary and close friend, Vladimir Chertkov, to create the International Tolstoy Society.

During this period in Russian history, the life and craft of the newly freed peasantry (emancipated in 1861 by Tsar Alexander II) became a romanticized ideal, and, despite the fact that many peasants were Orthodox Christians, the Church was viewed by Tolstoyans as a source of outdated social ritual. Artists and thinkers alike were influenced by this return to simplicity and disbanding of established classes and norms. It is against this cultural and political landscape that THE LAST STATION, Michael Hoffman’s adaptation of Jay Parini’s 1990 novel referring to the Astapovo train station—where Tolstoy passed away in 1910—takes place.

At Tuesday’s AFI FEST Tribute to Christopher Plummer (who plays Tolstoy), Hoffman remarked that this was mainly a film about love, reflected in the Tolstoy quote used to open the film: “Everything that I understand, I understand only because I love.” True, on the surface this is primarily a tale of love, namely that of the tumultuous relationship between Tolstoy and his wife, Sofya (Helen Mirren), as contrasted with the budding love between Tolstoy’s young secretary and devotee, Valentin Bulgakov (James McAvoy), and fellow Tolstoyan, Masha (Kerry Condon).

At first glance it may simply look like a romantic Merchant/Ivory period piece set in the Russian countryside. But to truly understand this film is to look deeper into the discord inherent in Tolstoy’s own life, not only his desire for simplicity and spiritual freedom but his own admitted attachment to worldly concerns. For Tolstoy, conflict was in essence what defined him. As he once told Maxim Gorky, “Freedom—that is when everything and everybody agree [sic] with me, but in that case I wouldn’t exist, because none of us has any sense of himself except in conflicts, contradictions.”

Tensions exist not just between Tolstoy and his wife, but also between his true self and others’ perceptions of him. Chertkov (Paul Giamatti) in particular holds Tolstoy up as an icon, putting Tolstoy’s austere teachings into practice in a commune near Tolstoy’s estate at Yasnaya Polyana. Enter Bulgakov, the young idealist who finds himself in the middle of a battle of wills—literally. Sofya, equally staunch in her traditional religious and social beliefs, wants to keep the copyright to Tolstoy’s works in the family, while Chertkov wishes to release them freely into the public domain. Bulgakov navigates these two camps by keeping two diaries—one given to him by Chertkov, the other by Sofya. (In fact, Parini’s novel was inspired by Bulgakov’s diaries, as well as by the diaries of six other people in Tolstoy’s life). The fear of losing what is established, comfortable and known; the danger inherent in a cult of personality; and finally the loss of intimacy in a life that is carefully scrutinized are all themes given equal play in Hoffman’s screenplay.

Hoffman also reflects this tension with his camera work. His first establishing shot of the Russian countryside abruptly cuts to an interior of Sofya waking, startled and alone, running from her well-appointed room to Tolstoy’s primitive quarters, checking to make certain he is still alive. Time and time again Hoffman uses this play of contrasts. Short visual pauses of exterior shots of the Russian countryside interspersed with interior close-ups. In some ways it is an ironic transition, using bucolic scenery as a way to break the tension between intimate narratives, when in fact it was Tolstoy’s love and reverence for the countryside and the Russian peasant that creates the underlying difficulty in his relationship with his wife in the first place.

This is, however, far from being a stereotypically brooding Russian drama. Throughout the film there are comedic moments and running jokes (such as everyone pulling out their diaries the minute Tolstoy says something thought to be “profound”). Even in the most intense moments, there is some form of lightness, be it through dialogue or setting; a sense of play that makes the characters and the story that much more believable and human.

Katie Datko is a freelance writer. Even though she minored in Russian in college, she somehow never managed to finish War and Peace—even in English. She can be emailed at kdatko@hotmail.com.