The Brutalist
by Bobby Eddy
The moment of darkness sitting in front of a black screen before you launch into a 215-minute, two-act film is filled with anticipation—what if I have to pee? What if I need a snack? How long before the intermission? It can be nearly as much work for the audience as it is for the crew who made the film; a movie of that length demands three and a half hours of undivided attention at the behest of a filmmaker.
The task described may bring to mind last year’s much deserved Best Picture Oscar winner, Oppenheimer, another historical epic cum character study, boasting a bloated runtime. Christopher Nolan’s film managed to break through its crowded awards competition and stay in the zeitgeist of culture through its July release date, Barbenheimer memes, and well into Oscar season.
While Oppenheimer has already cemented itself as one of the great cinematic pieces of the 21st century, it is not The Brutalist, Brady Corbet’s unwavering and complex portrayal of Jewish restoration after the war—a visual homage to Hollywood technique of days past, a complex discussion of life after persecution, and an emotional lampooning of the concept of the “American Dream.” It is a carefully considered, beautifully executed allegory with the depth of a Ron Chernow biography and a reverence for the films that came before that may cement actor-turned-director, Corbet, as a modern Orson Wells.
Led by Adrien Brody in a boldly complex revisitation of post-war Judaism (following his Oscar winning performance in 2002’s The Pianist), The Brutalist (which gets its title from the architectural style, not the concept of being brutalized as many Letterboxd users seem to believe) paints a decades spanning portrait of Laszlo Toft, a fictionalized Hungarian-born Jewish architect who emigrates to the United States in hopes to reclaim his life, and achieve the mythical “American Dream.”
The film opens to one of the most breathtaking sequences of 2024 cinema—a disorienting tracking shot through the bowels of a boat carrying Laszlo and his friend to America. Set to Daniel Blumberg’s intoxicating score, we ultimately land on an effective and mighty skewed image of an upside-down Statue of Liberty—taking the iconic image from the spiritually akin The Godfather, Part II and flipping it literally on its head.
After a brief stint in NYC (and a depressing hand-job to boot), Laszlo makes his way to Philadelphia to a façade of safety in the arms of his cousin, Attila (Alessandro Nivola). Attila has opened his own furniture shop, abandoned his accent along with his Judaism, and married a Catholic wife, Audrey (Emma Laird). Laszlo and Attila wind up commissioned to renovate the library of the wealthy industrialist, Harrison Van Buren (Guy Pearce) by his son, Harry (a snide and punchable Joe Alwyn). But when Harrison returns earlier than expected to find his house in ruins, the order is called off with no compensation, and Attila and Laszlo are forced to suffer their losses.
In the fallout of the Van Buren commission, Laszlo is booted from his cousin’s home and forced to seek lodging in public shelters where he befriends Gordon (Issach De Bankole) and falls deeper into a functioning heroin addiction (a habit he’s continued from an injury he received while escaping the Nazi regime.)
It isn’t long before Harrison Van Buren tracks down Laszlo once again, having grown to appreciate his new minimalist library and done his own extensive research on Laszlo’s rich body of work. He offers him an opportunity to take on the design of a huge community center and church memorializing his deceased mother and in return, offers to track down and bring Laszlo’s lost wife, Erzsebet (Felicity Jones) and orphaned niece, Zsofia (Raffey Cassidy) over to America.
If this all seems like a lot, that’s because it… is. Brady Corbet has expertly crafted a complete history of a fabricated man (that feels more honest than most biopics getting dropped into cinemas weekly) and invited the audience to experience the tribulations of immigration in comprehensive, highly personal beats. The story weaves its way seamlessly into complex discussions of class, assimilation, Jewish healing, addiction, love after trauma, and the resilience of mankind. This is an American epic with an undercurrent of grief throughout and while comparably epic films deal with mobsters, superhumans, or nuclear warfare, The Brutalist merely offers vulnerability and totality.
The cast and crew fires on all cylinders. Adrien Brody leads with an quiet complexity and pulses with a deep sadness that makes moments of happiness for Laszlo that much more visceral, infectious, and absolutely gutting. Guy Pearce is perhaps at his finest in years as the privileged and multifaceted Harrison Van Buren, a tragic figure in his own right (and who’s fate will likely be a source of much controversy upon the film’s wide release). Felicity Jones brings the tormented Erzsebet to life with tremendous vulnerability and desperation. Meanwhile, Director of Photography Lol Crawley, who captures the remarkable scenic design and magnificent performances in Vista Vision and on 35mm film makes The Brutalist perhaps the most remarkably gorgeous film to emerge in the 21st century thus far.
Stories of persecution, and the holocaust films that have come before, have always seemed not only willing, but almost eager to depict the brutalization of the Jewish people. While Corbet doesn’t shy away from difficult conversations, what perhaps becomes most striking is the ways in which he avoids the trappings of the “Holocaust” film and depicts Jewishness with pride, intricacy, and without the characteristic images of suffering. Instead, The Brutalist is a story of Jewish restitution and the resilience of a people. The film is unashamed to present its story within its specific historical context and doesn’t let the socio-politics of today get in its way. As implied in its heavy-handed epilogue, the film admires the artistry and life’s work of man, while depicting the impact the roots of that artistry take on tragic figures.
Just like the style that gives the film its title, which employs the basics of construction as pleasing aesthetics, The Brutalist uses the makings of a man—the building blocks of lingering tragedy—and reframes it into something beautiful—a portrait that wears all its scars on the outside and turns it into something beautiful.