Rating: 3 out of 5 stars

These are the final days of Leo Tolstoy’s life, though of course he does not know that.  He has become more of a philosopher and spiritual leader than a novelist or literary figure, and his writings have spawned a pseudo-religion.   He is a celebrity, a beloved father of Russia, a Christ figure to his followers, the Tolstoyans, who live in communes and renounce worldly pleasures.  Meanwhile, the great writer, who is also a Count of Russia, lives in a grand mansion and argues incessantly with his wife, who thinks the whole movement to be nonsense and hogwash.

That is the premise for Michael Hoffman’s film “The Last Station.”  But if you approach it expecting an illuminating biopic on one of the greatest writers ever to live, you will be sorely disappointed.  Many critics have done so(especially the lovers and experts on Tolstoy) and have written negative reviews, primarily because “The Last Station” is not the movie they wanted it to be.  Sadly, they have missed the movie it is, which is powerful and profound in its own way.   This is not a biopic; this is a rumination on the nature of love.

Valentin Fedorovich Bulgakov (James McAvoy) is a young and idealistic Tolstoyan hired by the movement’s leader, Chertkov (Paul Giamatti, in all his mustache-twirling nastiness) to be personal secretary to Tolstoy (Christopher Plummer.)  He is told, in no uncertain terms, that his real job is to spy on the actions and intentions of Tolstoy’s wife, Sofya (Helen Mirren) whom Chertkov views as the greatest enemy of the Tolstoyan movement.   Particularly at stake is Tolstoy’s last will and testament; Chertkov wants him to turn all of his copyrights over to public domain.  “Your mind is the rightful property of the Russian people,”  he entreats.   Sofya sees this as a grand betrayal of their family (she bore him 13 children) and fights Chertkov tooth and nail.

But when McAvoy arrives on the Tolstoy estate, he finds that things are not as black and white as Giamatti has painted them.  Sofya is a warm and passionate woman, given to making grand scenes, breaking dishes and throwing herself on the floor, or in the pond.  And yes, she is adamant about retaining the copyrights to her husband’s works after his death.   But it is not because she wants the money; they are Russian nobility, after all, and want for nothing.  It is because the works are a product of their marriage; She is the one who copied them for him; she the one who edited, gave him notes, revised, stayed up nights talking about the characters.  His name may be on the cover, but her her soul is embedded in the books just as much as his.  As Tolstoy ponders giving them over to the movement, Sofya feels that she is being abandoned by her husband, replaced by a bunch of charlatans practicing a fake religion.

And thus we begin to see what “The Last Station” is really about:  it is a conflict between the idea of love, as practiced by Giamatti and the Tolstoyans, and the practice of love, embodied by the tumultous but powerful marriage between Tolstoy and his wife.  The Tolstyoans seems joyless and cerebral,  while Sofya is all Sturm un Drang.  This is highlighted by a romantic subplot involving McAvoy and Kerry Condon, a resident at the Tolstoyan commune where he resides.   Their romance is frowned upon by the director of the commune; (Tolstoyans practice celibacy) and eventually he must choose between the woman he loves and the movement that talks about love.

“The Last Station” ends tragically, just as Tolstoy’s life did.   This is a story about two people who love each other, but unfortunately entrench themselves in opposite positions and cannot find common ground.   The tragedy is that neither of them really, truly believe in what they fight for; Tolstoy isn’t that great a Tolstoyan himself, and looks at the movement with a sort of whimsical skepticism.  And Sofya just wants to know that she is still loved, still listened to, still an important part of his life.  Unfortunately, she expresses this in the worst, most counterproductive way possible; by screaming and storming about, making a scene and calling people names.   And Tolstoy rumbles and roars about having a little peace in his home.  It’s hard to believe that one good, honest heart-to-heart between these two wouldn’t allow them to find some common ground and reconcile.  And harder still to watch these two passionate people, who so clearly love and need each other,  carry their embittered, embattled, meaningless grudges very nearly to end of their lives.

I wonder if it is possible to simply watch Dr. Parnassus as a movie, minus all the subtext and circumstance that surrounds it.    I know it wasn’t possible for me.   Perhaps in twenty years, someone will pop this in the 3D hologram machine, and at the end, wonder what all the fuss is about.   Because as a movie, it’s pretty minor, pretty flawed, and pretty strange.   It comes from the Island of Misfit Toys;  it’s the kind of movie you love–or at least feel affection, and perhaps pity, for– because of its flaws, not in spite of them.

“Parnassus” is about a wizard/mystic/sage/entertainer(Christopher Plummer) who is able to offer people entrance into their own imaginary worlds.   Unfortunately, he does so through a gift-wrap paper looking glass that is part of a shabby travelling show, so very few people give him a second look or bother to sample what he is offering.   He, his daughter(Lily Cole) the requisite dwarf (Verne Troyer, predictably awful) and a stage hand (Andrew Garfield) live in poverty, stealing more meals than they earn, in spite of possessing what must be considered the Most Amazing Show on Earth.

Now parallel that to director Terry Gilliam’s career.   For thirty years, since his days with Monty Python, Gilliam has made some of the most original, creative, and unique films out there.    Almost all of them have been box office failures.   Some of them, like “Brazil” and “Twelve Monkeys, and “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas”  have attained cult status.   Gilliam ought to be spoken of in the same breath as directors like Tim Burton, Henry Selick, maybe even David Lynch and Guillermo del Toro, but he isn’t.   He’s the outsider amongst the outsider, the shabby, rambling showman who has something incredible to show you, if you’d just slow down on your way to the latest ruination of “Alice in Wonderland” to see it.   He is Dr. Parnassus.

And you’ve probably heard that “Parnassus” is Heath Ledger’s last film; he died while it was still being shot,  and there was some question as to whether it would be finished at all.   Ledger plays a stranger the troupe finds one night hanging from a bridge; he ought to be dead but isn’t.   He has amnesia, or maybe he doesn’t, and thus can’t remember who he is or where he came from, except maybe he can, and doesn’t want to.   He joins the troupe and attempts to modernize their approach, which as mentioned before, is badly needed.   Ledger finished filming all of the scenes outside of the magical Imaginarium.   And then he died.

What follows is perhaps the most heart-breaking, beautiful and memorable tributes in movie history.   To finish his final film, Ledger’s friends sub in for him.  Johnny Depp takes a turn, then Jude Law, and finally Colin Farrell (rumor has it that Tom Cruise wanted a shot, but Gilliam turned him down, because Ledger didn’t know him personally.)  This works, mostly, because they are inside the Imaginarium; the rules are different.   It works, supremely, because it makes “Parnassus” feel less like a piece of entertainment and more like a labor of love.   Ledger’s friends carry him across the finish line, and the movie is made.    If that doesn’t bring a tear to your eye, you are made of stone.

The plot involves a deal that Parnassus has made with the devil (played, with relish and appropriate scenery-chewing, by Tom Waits) involving his beautiful daughter.   As I watched this bearded wizard scramble to escape the devil, make a new deal, beg, borrow or steal his way out of it, again my thoughts turn to Gilliam.   He’s not a young man anymore, and it must grow harder and harder to find people willing to finance the movies he wants to make.   At what point must the travelling show come to an end, the child of his heart be sold to the highest bidder, and this wonderfully imaginative director start churning out Cameron-esque moneymakers?   I hope there’s still a few ticks on the clock for him.

Rating: 2.5 out of 5 stars

by Willie Krischke – October 28, 2009

“9″ began life as an award-winning short film in 2005.  It probably should’ve stayed that way. Instead, it feels like a good short film stretched like an old rubber band so that it could be released in theaters and make more money.   Someday we need to stop and ask ourselves why films have to be 70-150 minutes long in order to be considered “feature-length,”  but perhaps today is not that day.

“9″ takes place in a gorgeously visualized, post-apocalyptic world, where the only survivors are 8 inches tall and seem to be made of burlap and clock parts.  The film has a lot of fun with the dilemmas of living in a world that’s 20 sizes too big – a lot of its best bits reminded me of “The Littles” and “The Borrowers,” books I read as a kid. Director Shane Acker clearly loves following these creatures around and seeing how they survive in a pretty terrifying world.  And who can blame him.  It’s pretty fun.

But eventually it becomes necessary to impose a plot structure upon Acker’s beloved creatures, and that’s when the problems start.   Whoever is responsible for the script wrote it in about five minutes, borrowing liberally from the Matrix sequels, Indiana Jones, and any other post-apocalyptic and/or adventure movie that was handy.  The main character is called 9, and guess what, there are 8 others, each with a big number on its back, and more caricature than personality.  There’s a glowing talisman, and a gibberish-spouting prophet, and an evil cat-monster.    People need to be rescued, the source needs to be returned to, authoritarian leaders must be defied, etc.   None of it feels at all fresh or original, which is disconcerting, because everything looks so fresh and original.

I guess “9″ is a kids’ movie, and really, kids probably won’t care about hackneyed plot structure, cardboard characters, etc.   I wouldn’t take little children to see “9,” unless they’re exceptionally brave – it’s likely to give them terrible nightmares about cat-monsters– but older kids might enjoy it.   It’s a great-looking movie, but in a year filled with great-looking kid’s movies, it comes up short.