Before its wide release, The Brutalist was framed as the cinema event of the year by passionate enthusiasts who were entranced with the mere depth it offered. The three-and-a-half-hour historical epic — intermission included — was lauded with exceptional praise from its premiere. For fans of celluloid, it’s the first film since the 1960s shot almost entirely using VistaVision, which is a super high-definition, widescreen format. Directed by actor-turned-auteur Brady Corbet, the film was shot in only 34 days and, even more impressively, was made for less than 10 million dollars. The Brutalist is not only a feat of the form but a sign that independent projects fueled by a passion for the craft could be actualized.
“Monumental,” “tremendous,” and “striking” have all been used to describe how much of an achievement The Brutalist is, but there isn’t enough verbiage to replace the grandeur of the experience itself. After traveling to D.C. to see the film twice, once in 70mm and again in IMAX, the breadth of the theatrical experience might have clouded my judgment. But, even after a second viewing, it’s clear Corbet as a director far outpaces himself as a writer considering how the film’s technical accomplishes vastly overshadow its rhetorical pieces.
Narratively and formally, the first half of the film is practically perfect. The story follows László Tóth (Adrien Brody), a Jewish-Hungarian architect who immigrates to the United States after surviving the Holocaust. After a short stint living with his American cousin, he is hired as an architect by a wealthy businessman named Harrison Lee Van Buren (Guy Pearce).
László‘s status as a foreigner is constructed through his dynamics with other characters, who are almost exclusively either well-adjusted or well-off Americans. His American cousin, Attila, has long converted from Judaism to adapt a more acceptable white Anglo-Saxon Protestant identity with a Catholic faith, and their conversations demonstrate the subtle mutual disdain the two have over their own decisions of conformity, or lack thereof.
Similarly, László‘s status within Harrison’s exclusive, upper-class circle is thoughtfully depicted. Rather than being respected as an equal or peer, he’s only accepted by Harrison for as long as he is useful. The script is phenomenal in depicting the nuances of this dynamic.
By the time the perfectly placed intermission occurs, the runtime is barely felt. Despite The Brutalist’s flaws, its pacing is not one of them. The three and a half hour length is well-paced, and, in actuality, the film could have used another 30 minutes in the second half to completely develop its points.
The second half is a steep downfall. Every nuanced depiction of the immigrant experience present in the first half is grossly warped. The overused drug addiction metaphor for the American dream was enough of a drag without the rest of the on-the-nose plot devices that occur in the last half hour. Particularly, there is a violent scene between László and Harrison that is so heavy-handed it drags the rest of the film down.
At its core, The Brutalist is more interested in being an allegory for filmmaking than it is interested in interrogating any of its much more fascinating points about the American dream, Judaism, Zionism or architecture itself. The Brutalist does its best job at depicting the dynamic of an artist and his patron, and how, in turn, an artist’s subjugation can be mutually beneficial in a system where he was never going to survive on his own. Before working under Harrison, László had no means to pursue work in architecture and make money doing so. To survive, he does grunt construction work before being able to get substantial funding. An artist’s reliance on capital is a clear parallel to Corbet’s own experience of directing, but the story has its moments of potential that get robbed by a lack of care.
Corbet has said The Brutalist is “very, very radical,” and, in a way, it could have been, but it misses the mark. After Corbet accepted the prize for Best Film at the New York Film Critics Circle Awards, he ended his speech by advocating for No Other Land, a documentary about the destruction of the West Bank, to be picked up by U.S. distributors.
While Israel is painted as an escape for its characters, The Brutalist is not Zionist. However, it makes no decisive claim about Zionism either way. Its epilogue could be positioned as a way to critique Israel as a creation of American imperialism, but it's not brave enough to be decisive. Subtlety is a praise-worthy trait, and, in the beginning, the narrative’s subtle exploration of American exceptionalism is great. However, by the end, every claim The Brutalist makes becomes so blunt in comparison to the one point that shouldn’t be vague — Israel won’t save its characters from America’s failures.
In a way, the swift sudden change of nuance follows the protagonist’s beliefs. For László, the American dream fails, his artistic achievements and legacy are manipulated against his wishes, and his voice is figuratively — and literally — silenced. Every belief or goal he has for himself is harshly deconstructed in America, but László’s legacy remains the same regardless of where he goes.
Despite the odd pacing and plot choices made in the second half, The Brutalist’s superb score, cinematography and acting remains consistent throughout. Brody delivers a moving performance not unlike his work in The Pianist. While Pearce does an excellent job conveying a two-faced, sinister man, Joe Alwyn is a stand-out of the supporting cast with his ability to go from calculatingly charming to unpleasantly cold-hearted and cruel. The elevated elements making up The Brutalist cause its thematic undoing to be even more upsetting than its defeated ending.
As I grapple with how successful of a picture The Brutalist is, I recall its opening, which is still one of my favorite sequences of the year. The gorgeous score synchronizes sublimely with a singular shot of an upside-down statue of liberty. The use of light and sound creates a sudden sense of optimism that erases the dread of the dark train car depicted just seconds before. The bleakness is gone, and, even if it’s just for a moment, you can believe in the promise of America.
