In the later years of his life, Count Lev Nikolayevich (Leo) Tolstoy became an avid socialist. His wife, the Countess Sofya Tolstoy, did not, relishing the estate and the lifestyle that Tolstoy’s literary success had provided her and her family—and terrified that her husband’s new, socially ambitious companions would snatch her fortune away from her as a gift for the Russian people.

With “War and Peace” and “Anna Karenina” long behind him, Tolstoy (Christopher Plummer) continued to write, but his essays had turned to supporting pacifism and nonviolent resistance and disdaining religion. In 1910 the communist party was still almost a decade away, but many in Russia were grumbling about the czar’s wealth and power. Tolstoy was becoming a catalyst for dissent.

Given such rich juxtaposition of fate and history, how perfect to dramatize Tolstoy’s last years as both loving husband and reluctant social crusader.

Sofya (Helen Mirren) desperately wants proof that Leo, many years her senior, will not give their property to the people. Wonderfully headstrong and sulky, she thwarts Leo’s peace and tranquility and his attempts to write.

Sofya has banned Tolstoy’s crusading secretary, Vladimir Chertkov (Paul Giamatti), from the estate. Chertkov must rely on a young, naïve replacement, Valentin Bulgakov (James McAvoy), to keep an eye on Sofya’s meddling. Once Valentin is established in the Tolstoys’ residence, Sofya asks him to similarly spy on Chertkov.

All of which sounds like the ripe makings of a pratfall comedy—except “The Last Station” remains an exceptionally profound drama, the suspicions and accusations painfully real. What keeps the film from stuttering or spiraling into the maudlin or the melodramatic are the exceptional performances by Plummer and Mirren as the Tolstoys, who clearly love each other but have long ago diverged on separate paths.

One might suspect the last year of Tolstoy’s life (as based on a 1990 biography by Jay Parini) to be less than exquisite cinematic material, but lovers of fine drama would be mistaken. The dialogue shows keen awareness that the most quarrelsome of families are bound by a tenuous remnant of love, and director Michael Hoffman juggles personalities with empathetic awareness.

The introduction of the fictional, likable Valentin into the mix acts as an emotional anchor—from his viewpoint, one comes to realize the overzealous extremes of argument, the aging Tolstoy reduced to little more than a pawn in a country on the verge of social upheaval.

Marvelously, “The Last Station” opens like a cinematic postcard of a moment in a world far away and retains its visual splendor throughout; the effort is both pragmatic and tender, the acting is superb. For drama and history lovers, an intelligent treat of a film.

Back in the 1950s—when Americans were taught to fear most things—the criminally insane seemed like a pretty nifty adversary for us God-fearing, change-cringing, martini-swilling middle-class denizens. Build a film that feels like those superficially pleasant, paranoidinducing ’50s and we’re all set for a noir-ish terror-tinged journey into the unknown. Without zombies or vampires or those little green guys from outer space, we’re left with that most heinous of predators—the human mind.

With “Shutter Island,” director Martin Scorsese has concocted a smart and cagey psychotic thrill ride of a movie. Some of us familiar with the plot convolutions and cinematic twists of psycho-thrillers may solve the mystery prematurely—but even then, “Shutter Island” holds up as an edge-of-your-seat experience.

When U.S. marshals Teddy Daniels (Leonardo DiCaprio) and Chuck Aule (Mark Ruffalo) arrive out of the mist to investigate the disappearance of a mental patient, one quickly realizes that the “normal” world is suddenly a little too distant for comfort. Even hospital boss Dr. John Cawley (Ben Kingsley) seems slightly off-kilter (okay, one hint: This isn’t a schlocky “the inmates have taken over the asylum” remake—it’s deeper, richer and oogier.)

But that’s all I’ll offer because, plotwise, the less one knows about “Shutter Island,” the better. I’ll admit there may be a few unnecessary “Boo!” moments here and there—and Scorsese turns up the ominous music way too soon (and a notch too loudly)—but otherwise I think most thrill-seekers will enjoy the journey.

For the squeamish, take heart: There’s little unnecessary overt violence or blood splatter—although some of the scenes are quite startling. Overall, “Shutter Island” feels like a well-crafted psychological thriller from the heyday: more Hitchcock than Rob Zombie, and nicely nerve-jangling in most of the right places.