Oblomov

Cross the two-hour barrier with a film about inertia and ennui - albeit a gentle period comedy - and you've automatically got a problem: how to convey the feelings without inducing them? Mikhalkov can't totally stave off drooping eyelids, but this engagingly adapted parable (from Goncharov's novel) of a privileged recluse being reluctantly dragged towards light, life and love produces its share of helpful wry nudges. Still, it has to be admitted that as the tardily socialised, eternally indecisive Oblomov, Tabakov invests sloth with a winning seductiveness.