Mikhalkov's version of Chekhov's first play, Platonov, has a lyrical naturalism that Chekhov would have loved. Beautifully paced, the film knows when to draw back from its lethargic liberals, impotent idealists, and hedonists in hock. Stolidly unlikely to inflame even provincial female hearts, Alexander Kalyagin's once promising schoolmaster rings uncomfortably true as he rouses a sleeping household with the tragic self-realisation of the non-achiever down the ages. 'I'm thirty-five!' he shrieks, yesterday's radical now a blubbering clown. The household clucks, consoles, squabbles, goes back to sleep as dawn breaks. Chilly for some. MHoy.