The Brutalist
A24
The dream of the immigrant is one of hope. Whether they are fleeing a country due to persecution or in search of financial stability, they are among the bravest people in the world: leaving the known in favor of the unknown, often finding themselves in countries where they do not understand the language nor the customs. But hope is what keeps them going: hope that things will be different, that their children will have a brighter future. And the United States of America, a country (violently) built by immigrants, is the ultimate symbol of such hope. These relatable experiences have been tackled countless times in cinema, from gangster epics like Once Upon a Time in America to more intimate dramas such as Brooklyn and The Immigrant. However, they have never been tackled quite in the same way as in The Brutalist.
Brady Corbet and Mona Fastvold’s labor of love took 7 years to make, and it was well worth the wait. Following Jewish-born Hungarian architect László Tóth (Adrien Brody) over a span of 30 years, The Brutalist is a dense film that never overwhelms during its 3.5 hour runtime. Corbet had already proven his penchant for dark dramas with his debut The Childhood of a Leader, while Vox Lux was (ironically) a misunderstood piece on the impossibility to control how people perceive and manipulate one’s art. With The Brutalist, he continues his fascination with the complexities of history and the consequences of silence in the face of evil, crafting a genuine magnum opus in the process.
When he reaches America, László works for his cousin, Attila (Alessandro Nivola), who has done everything to fit into American society, changing his surname to Miller and converting after marrying a Christian girl. Throughout the film, Tóth rejects this assimilation, this letting go of his heritage and true identity: he wants to make a life for himself in the States, but he does not want to renounce everything that led up to this journey, for that would also erase the pain that he and his loved ones endured during the Holocaust. However, this choice comes at a price: pure racism and xenophobia.
A brilliant architect back in the day, László ends up being hired by Harrison Lee Van Buren (Guy Pearce), a wealthy industrialist who craves to be special, to be remembered. Through Tóth’s works, Van Buren can boast his sharp intellect and acute sensibilities to modernist art, which of course is nothing more than a facade. Van Buren is a bigot, an ignorant man whose sole ability is that of smelling and finding money. Neither he nor his children want people like László around, yet they tolerate him because of his undeniably impeccable craftsmanship. Were it not for that, they would never look twice at an immigrant looking to work hard to survive.
The relationship that develops between Harrison and László is one of patron and artist, where the hand that feeds cannot be bitten despite constant abuse, lest losing the finances to keep creating art. Not only does this dynamic work beautifully in the film on a literal level, it also excels at portraying how often artists are forced to make something against their will, for being financed to make art you do not support is still a better alternative than making no art at all. Even though he fled fascism in Europe, Tóth ended up finding himself victim of another form of fascism, capitalism, with Van Buren as its Mussolini. Not even the foundation of the State of Israel (a plot point that has been severely misconstrued) can ease the feeling of being lost and unrecognized in the world: it is another dream, another promise of a place where there will be jobs and opportunities. Alluring and needed for the Jewish community following the diaspora and Holocaust, but a dream nonetheless.
Only two things can help lessen the pain of László’s long-term menial task: addiction, and love. He falls into the comforting numbness of drugs because he is lacking the presence of his wife Erzsébet (Felicity Jones), who is unable to leave Europe with her niece Zsófia (Raffey Cassidy). Once reunited, both of their experiences while apart have forever damaged their marriage. Much has been said about the film’s staggering length, but watching it there is no way this tale could have been told as effectively in just 2 hours or less. A romance like that between László and Erzsébet is deeply nuanced and layered, requiring the gradual buildup to their reunion and the following complex revelations, because otherwise it would feel shallow and hollow.
That is the secret of The Brutalist. While not necessarily one-of-a-kind in its singular elements, it is in the way they all come together to tell this intimate yet grand story that its true genius lies. Just like László uses his commissions to process his own traumas and hide secrets, turning art into an act of defiance, so too has Brady Corbet filled this epic with many layers, culminating in a final act that is beautifully ambiguous and bound to spark heated conversations following each screening.
The film is not all doom and gloom, however. The screenplay injects multiple instances of humor and running gags that help alleviate much of the tension, and every one of the actors is on the same page in walking this tonal tightrope. Adrien Brody reminds everyone that he truly is one of our great actors, not only with his accent but also his physicality, his vulnerability, and his passion. Felicity Jones shines in her best role yet, coming close to stealing the film from Brody in the second half, while Guy Pearce is slimy and hateable in equal measure, portraying a vile human being that is all too familiar to everyone in today’s political landscape.
Needless to say, The Brutalist is a brilliant film that deserves to be seen in the cinema, especially on 70mm film to fully experience the VistaVision cinematography that highlights the intimacy of the performances and the scope of the narrative. Major shoutout to Daniel Blumberg, an underrated experimental artist who finally got his chance to shine with a grandiose, loud, and powerful soundtrack that propels the movie forward from its rousing overture to its unexpected epilogue.