A while ago I went to see The Last Station, which was kind of awful. I thought it would be at least decent: I love Helen Mirren, and James McEvoy is a good-ish actor, and Paul Giamatti is the bomb. The movie was pretty and thoughtfully-shot and well-paced. Why, then, was it so terrible? I’m going to chalk it up to lousy writing and research. I sat in my seat scowling at the melodramatic lines and anachronistic Cyrillic orthography.
Then halfway through, I decided to view the movie like a post from Sweet Sunday Mornings and focus on the set design. And suddenly the movie was thrilling. I mean, duh: it’s set in 1910 Russia on a count’s estate. How could I not be in love? I want to live in this house, top to bottom. I’ll take a pass on most of Helen Mirren’s wardrobe, though.
