From the opening quote of The Last Station – aptly enough, a quote from Leo Tolstoy’s own War and Peace – it is clear that this is a film concerned with the myriad ways in which love can powerfully touch a person, either to grand ecstasy, or to incredible danger. While wildly uneven, this Tolstoy biopic is a solid enough vehicle for its two leads, Christopher Plummer and Helen Mirren, both of whom received Oscar nominations, and there’s also plenty of scenery here for the supporting players to chew through.

Though revolving entirely around Tolstoy (Plummer), the real meat of The Last Station (for better or worse) is Valentin Bulgakov (James McAvoy), a young admirer of Tolstoy’s work, who has been sent to work as his secretary by the sycophantic, virulent Tolstoyan Vladimir Chertkov (Paul Giamatti). However, Chertkov has an ulterior motive; he is nervous that Tolstoy’s works – which he feels should be left in the public domain and “owned by the people” – are going to be signed over to Tolstoy’s wife, Sofya (Mirren). Therefore, he instructs Valentin to scribe not about Tolstoy’s rhetoric, but in fact his interactions with his wife, while Sofya herself, a plucky, if overly dramatic type, also asks Valentin to take some notes, as she attempts to secure her husband’s legacy for herself.

Tolstoy, meanwhile, spends most of the film baffled by all of the drama taking place around him, trying his best to ignore his fanatical followers, who scribe his every word and treat him like a demi-God, while also trying to calm his wife’s fiery temper. Christopher Plummer certainly looks the part and has charm to spare, which makes it all the more unfortunate that he’s bumped to the back row for the less-interesting McAvoy character (through absolutely no fault of McAvoy). While it’s certainly nice to see Plummer finally rewarded with an Oscar nomination, he might have had an actual chance at winning the thing if Tolstoy was made anything more than a spectre lingering in the background.

But for all of its flaws, there is one big plus (aside from the acting); this is not your grandmother’s stodgy, weary, overlong drama. Rather, this is a fairly brisk, oddly whimsical picture that derives a lot of humour from Mirren’s performance, who is, quite aptly, the film’s unpretentious core, unlocking the heart behind Tolstoy’s status as a demagogue. Sofya’s battle-of-tongues with her husband is particularly amusing, resulting in an exasperated Tolstoy eventually uttering, “You need a Greek chorus!”

Still, the fact remains that the focus isn’t really on Tolstoy; the magnifying glass is instead concentrated on Valentin and his relationship with a local girl, Masha (Kerry Condon), depicting how their love emancipates him from the same bootlicking behaviour that makes his colleagues so insufferable and soulless. However, their relationship – youthful and sexually active – does serve as a noted counter-point to that of Leo and Sofya’s, which is now winding down, and as evidenced by Sofya’s frustration, isn’t exactly creating sparks in the bedroom. With all of her histrionics, Sofya could very well indict the actress playing her, but Mirren is simply so good that she separates herself from the overt drama of her part, spitting venom with seasoned skill, being at once admirable and pitiful.

The middle section chugs along on fumes, and the final reel lacks much incident or energy, but it survives on the strength of both its performances and its food for thought; after all, as Tolstoy begins to succumb to old age, and his followers crowd around his bedside, hoping to make a mythic event out of his demise, is it not an interesting religious parallel? Fortunately, for the final hurdle, the film poignantly reconnects the dots in favour of Leo and Sofya’s relationship, rather than focusing on Valentin and Masha’s, but once it’s all said and done, there’s the distinct feeling that this is an opportunity not wasted, but only half-fulfilled.

Still, the solid performances compensate for the overly slender narrative, with Plummer, Mirren, and Giamatti being of particular note. Still, The Last Station is a film more interested in routine melodrama than examining Tolstoy's final days with any depth or insight. It's amusing enough, but it’s hardly probing, and certainly not the sublime prestige pic it could have been.