In The Brutalist, Brady Corbet has crafted a film that is as unyielding and monumental as the architectural style it’s named after. Set against the backdrop of post-WWII America, the film opens with László Tóth (Adrien Brody) boarding a ship from war-torn Europe, bound for a new life. As the Statue of Liberty shakily enters the screen – inverted and sideways but never upright – we’re thrust into our protagonist’s dreamlike, hopeful yet ultimately disorienting journey ahead.
The first half of the film is undoubtedly a masterpiece. Brody’s performance is a real tour de force, and a career-defining one for that matter. As he took home a second Oscar for Best Actor, the role cemented Brody as one of the most compelling actors of his generation and marked another milestone in his extraordinary cinematic journey thus far. Twenty-two years ago, he made history as the youngest person to ever win Best Actor for his role as Władysław Szpilman in biographical film The Pianist (2002), portraying a Polish-Jewish pianist during the Holocaust.
Now in The Brutalist, Brody brings to life a Bauhaus-trained Hungarian architect who survived Buchenwald, his gesture and glance carry the weight of a man haunted by war and driven by a desperate longing to reunite with his wife Erzsébet (Felicity Jones) and niece Zsófia (Raffey Cassidy). Hidden in plain sight however, is a muted conviction and creative ambition that only a downtrodden architectural master possesses. Brody portrays the interplay between trauma and hope, languid and grit with gut-wrenching intensity.
The cinematography is electrifying, capturing stark contrasts between the serene and opulent Van Buren estate, the modest unit of bourgeois cousin Attila (Alessandro Nivola), and the dimly lit jazz clubs that Tóth frequents as a lowly immigrant. Each frame is infused with impeccable aesthetic and a sense of foreboding. From the pulsating three-track overture to the hammering construction motifs, the soundtrack also weaves perfectly into the epic. As a standalone, Daniel Blumberg’s Oscar-winning score is perhaps obscure and insubstantial, but its industrial cadence is the film’s most fitting companion. Coupled with a refined script, these elements culminate into storytelling that is both “persuasive and intellectually stimulating”, arousing intrigue in much the same way the wealthy industrialist Harrison Lee Van Buren (Guy Pearce) is drawn to Tóth.
Architecture is central to the film’s narrative, but contrary to expectations, its presence as a technical discipline diminishes, becoming instead an emblem of ideologies, power dynamics, and aspirations. This is not a film about buildings, but one about fractured, suppressed lives and the structures – both physical and societal – that build or break them. Tóth’s foreign designs create tension in the capitalist American spaces they occupy, be it the surprise library that initially incites Van Buren’s outrage or the community centre berated by local construction partners, and they mirror his own precarious immigrant experience.
For a moment, we were made to believe that Tóth might finally have his career reinvigorated and dignity restored when the powerful Van Buren became enamoured – intoxicated even – by his talent and modesty. As his commissioner, Van Buren offers not only stability and monetary reward but also a “second chance” to revive his profession, and an exclusive access to the otherwise far-reaching elite circle from which he is able to benefit. But as we later find out, with great distress, the plutocrat’s admiration-turned-obsession is laced with exploitation and bigotry, and comes at a heavy cost for Tóth and his loved ones.
The Brutalist is not an easy film to sit through, particularly the second half, which is laden with critique and differentiating opinions – whether as a misconceived depiction of the Bauhaus school or its relative jumpiness compared to a stellar part one. As audiences return to their seats after a 15-minute intermission, they must prepare for greater trials and tribulations as the narrative takes a darker and more absurd turn. The only solace in this emotionally taxing segment comes from the film’s female characters, notably the arrival of Erzsébet, whose presence up until now, has only been felt through sombre and earnest voice-overs.
Jones’ Erzsébet is a quiet yet commanding force, and her performance is equally remarkable in a story dominated by masculinity. An accomplished Oxford graduate and journalist, Erzsébet is more than “the woman behind the man”. She is less impressed by the Van Buren crowd but understands acutely that the barriers she faces are not only discrimination but also the patriarchy. Unlike her husband, her dreams are not tethered to idealistic reinventions of the self but to rebuilding a shattered life. She remains a loyal and unwavering anchor to Tóth amidst turbulence and despite her own disabilities. In a climactic confrontation, Erzsébet finally allows herself to vocally condemn her husband’s abuser, only to be ruthlessly clamped down by Harrison’s menacing son (Joe Alwyn) and momentarily salvaged by a deeply apologetic Maggie (Stacey Martin), who seems to be the only humane member of the family.
Opposite Jones, Brody’s Tóth is a volatile man torn between his steadfast idealism and the crude assault he’s repeatedly endured. This irreconcilable tension erupts in his heartbreaking outburst to Erzsébet as they speed away from the construction site: “They do not want us here!” Delivered with a bitter mix of defiance and despair, Tóth finally admits painfully that the pair will never be accepted no matter their talent or work ethic, even if they remain subservient to others’ exploitation and manipulation. Clenching the steering wheel, Tóth’s words are meant for Erzsébet just as much as they are for himself. It is in this scene where Brody’s Oscar feels not just deserved but inevitable.
The film has an almost bizarre ending when Van Buren vanishes into thin air following Erzsébet’s accusation. After a fruitless search for the man, the scene eventually cuts to the completed project, a majestic yet eerily silent mammoth perched on the hilltop, resembling a tombstone among other symbols, and serving as a metaphor for the spectre of violence. This harrowing moment is bound to disturb and leave many perplexed, but it is precisely this ambiguity that etches a lasting impression in the mind.
In a contemporary world scarred by division and displacement, The Brutalist feels all the more timely. Architecture, much like art, is never just about form and function, but about the histories that shape it, the futures it imagines, and the lives that breathe into it. The film’s exploration of immigration, religion and capitalism is underpinned by a critique of insidious power structures rooted in our global society, whether it’s the hypocrisy of the American dream, the fraught discourse surrounding Zionism, or other injustices that a local audience may be moved to interpret. Corbet’s film reminds us of the most urgent and enduring questions of our time with skilful artistry, and it will surely linger long after the credits roll.
Editor
Yolanda LamCredit
Images: Courtesy of A24
