'The Brutalist' review: A modern American masterpiece
The Brutalist is a towering paean to the American dream, in all its force and folly. Set over several decades, Brady Corbet's post-World War II immigrant saga is — like the architectural achievements of its protagonist — constructed with meticulous consideration, resulting in a work of multifaceted technique and piercing humanity.
The film, arresting from its first frames, spends three-and-a-half engrossing hours on the tale of László Tóth (Adrien Brody), a fictitious Jewish Hungarian architect and survivor of the Holocaust, whose arrival in America yields both rigorous struggle and tempting opportunity. It embodies the kind of American epics no longer really made by Hollywood studios. Comparisons to The Godfather have abounded since its Venice International Film Festival premiere (though as a vast immigrant saga, a more fitting analogy might be The Godfather Part II). Time will tell whether these are hyperbole, but while watching The Brutalist, it's hard not to think of the truly great American stories of the 20th century, like Once Upon a Time In America, and on occasion, even Citizen Kane.
The latter is the loftiest possible invocation, but it's a comparison of scale and subject matter, not of technical innovation. The Brutalist, for all its splendor, is not a forward-thinking film like Orson Welles' Kane — but this is, in fact, a key piece of its aesthetic and thematic puzzle. The immediacy with which it conjures past masterpieces is part of its enormous thesis on the purpose of art, which it smuggles beneath a soul-stirring saga of survival, one that exists in conversation with, of all things, Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead. The film is both a densely-packed text, filled with rich thought on the world at large, as well as an excitingly rhythmic work of cinema that moves with a fearsome passion. It's hard not to think of it as a new American masterpiece.
What is The Brutalist about?
Written by Corbet and Mona Fastvold, The Brutalist begins in 1947, in a time of reconstruction and uncertainty. When László arrives on Ellis Island — an intimate, disorienting scene that begins in his darkened ship bunk and moves above deck — his wife Erzsébet (Felicity Jones) and niece Zsófia (Raffey Cassidy), from whom he was separated during the war, remain stuck in the Soviet Union.
Taken in by his cousin Attila (Alessandro Nivola) in Philadelphia and working in his furniture shop, László begins proposing unique Modernist designs, until he's commissioned to build a library for a wealthy family, the Van Burens. Over the years, these aristocratic, old-money magnates — the boastful Harrison Lee (Guy Pearce) and his slimy son Harry (Joe Alwyn) — become a vital part of László's story. The film is novelistic in its unfurling, occasionally taking the form of an epistolary, via the letters sent between László and Erzsébet, but to borrow a phrase from a fellow critic, it's also "Great American Novel-istic." László's architectural passions, and his desperation to be reunited with his family, become deeply entwined with his personal and artistic ambitions. To put it simply, money is the solution at every turn, even if it corrodes his soul — but The Brutalist isn't quite so didactic.
While it spends several hours chronicling the way László changes, and is changed by the United States, the temptations of wealth and power are a small subset of the larger forces that mold him into a much angrier and bitter person. A party scene in Harrison's mansion diverts its focus from conversations to slow-motion shots of champagne and expensive jewelry, just as László is about to sign a long-term contract with the family to construct a community center. However, at no point does Corbet cut to reaction shots of László noticing these trinkets. They represent the fabric of the world he's about to enter, though as his chat with Harrison proceeds, he continues to speak of architecture with poetic adoration. ("I always find our conversations intellectually stimulating!" Harrison rasps, disguising the knowledge that he'll never be László's intellectual equal.) Wealth may not change László’s passions, but it might change how he approaches them.
All the while, the film also explores the fraught corners of post-World War II Jewish identity in the West. From the moment László arrives on America's shores, he's presented with questions of assimilation. His cousin Attila has married a Catholic woman, Audrey (Emma Laird), and has converted. The store he runs is called Miller and Sons, even though his last name is (or was) Molnár, the Hungarian equivalent — and as László quips, "You have no sons!" Before long, news of the infant state of Israel reaches him, leading to other Jewish characters in his vicinity wrestling with their rights and obligations.
Filming on The Brutalist was completed in May of last year, before the events of Oct. 7 led to a more widespread discussion on understanding of the colonial aspects of Israel's founding. The film doesn't get into granular detail — László himself may not be aware of the U.N.'s plans for the region, or how they might displace local Arabs — but the looming specter of this conversation imbues the movie with a tragic dilemma. László's options, as a refugee, are to bring other people harm through displacement, or to continue bringing harm to his own soul, through his immersion in American capitalism.
As the film proceeds, it centers a key question that applies to every facet of its construction: "What is strength?"
László's vision for the Van Burens' building — a blocky, pyramidic structure few others seem to understand — is uncompromising to a fault, even if it means pushing other people away in the process. But as the film proceeds, it centers a key question that applies to every facet of its construction: "What is strength?" What is its nature? Is it the materials and the deep concrete foundation László builds? If so, must this come at the cost of the shakier foundation of his roots in a new country? He is always seen as an outsider, whether because of his Jewish-ness, his foreign-ness, or both. Does strength involve living with the physical and psychological pain he's endured, and the strain it puts on his marriage? Or does it involve numbing that pain at any cost?
This thematic exclamation point would mark the end of discussions on most modern American films. But in the case of The Brutalist, it's merely the beginning, thanks in large part to Corbet's multifaceted, referential, and at times reverential use of form.
Every aspect of The Brutalist is finely tuned
What stands out first and foremost about The Brutalist is Adrien Brody's lead performance. It's funny, and stirring, and risible. However, there's not a single moment where the Hungarian-American actor isn't reaching into the depths of his soul, mining some corner of either his previous roles (such as in The Pianist) or of his mother's experience as a Hungarian woman of Jewish descent forced to flee her country in the 1950s. There's an awkwardness to László too, given the way he interacts with the world around him — which is to say, the country around him. To the untrained ear, his Hungarian dialogue (and his Hungarian accent while speaking English) seem just fine, but the Queens-born actor also purges himself of any remotely American intonation or idiosyncrasy. Whether or not he nails Hungarian specificities, he plays "foreigner" to a tee, between the way he gesticulates, to the way he enters and leaves both rooms and conversations. He is, first and foremost, an outsider.
While Brody's work is magnificently pained, let it not go unsaid: Guy Pearce is the movie's secret weapon, as the actor charged with creating the in-groups and inner circles which tacitly reject László in the first place. As Harrison, the Australian actor channels an air of arrogance that the character often smarmily re-frames as benevolence, leading to moments of shockingly casual cruelty towards László, usually played off as jokes. This dynamic is a key part of the story, and of the America in which László starts to assimilate, taking on Harrison's traits in turn.
Corbet's camera helps these performances shine, especially in the moments that The Brutalist takes dark and dour turns. Cinematographer Lol Crawley bathes certain scenes in darkness; his palette's contrasting warmth and shadow may have led to some of the Godfather comparisons, but the film isn’t interested in mere imitation, even though it conjures old-world styles as though they were forgotten spirits.
The Brutalist was shot on VistaVision, an IMAX-like technique first developed in the 1950s, in which 35-millimeter film stock was run sideways through a camera, increasing the surface area of the frame (the movie was subsequently projected on 70-millimeter at its premiere). This results in a crisper, sharper image than results from most modern digital workflows, but The Brutalist also appears to employ older lenses with numerous flaws, and razor-thin margin for what is or isn't in focus, revealing new dimensions to spaces and even people. Between its use of era-appropriate techniques and withered tools, The Brutalist ends up existing in a liminal space between past and present; it's simultaneously of an older era, as well as a window to that era, revealing a complicated relationship to the past.
'The Brutalist' ends up existing in a liminal space between past and present; it's simultaneously of an older era, as well as a window to that era, revealing a complicated relationship to the past.
For László, this relationship manifests as a pull-and-push between art and industry, and a struggle to preserve the forms his buildings take under capitalist constraints. However, the film itself takes intriguing form as well, wielding a litany of techniques owed to numerous different film movements over the years (that they even remotely gel together is something miraculous). The Brutalist is, in large part, shot with the classical composition of old Hollywood, with controlled framing and movement, but it often breaks from this norm.
On occasion, one might find the pronounced jump cuts of the French New Wave (created, ironically, as a response to the classic Hollywood studios), alongside the use of Soviet montage, accompanied — equally ironically — by voiceover and spliced footage from American propaganda newsreels about industrial innovation. The stark and careful shadows of Godfather cinematographer Gordon Willis, of New Hollywood, find themselves alongside techniques from contemporary independent movements in New York, like the freewheeling, improvisational, up-close-and-personal style of John Cassavetes. You might even find some Hungarian influence if you look closely enough (certain shots are owed to Béla Tarr, while others to László Nemes), and as the film moves forward through time, it even pulls from Lynchian surrealism, and techniques developed during the early video revolution.
Corbet's use of these contrasting techniques isn't just pronounced, but powerful and purposeful. He employs them to create jolting moments of narrative impact, but he also seems to pay homage to the history of the cinematic medium (and its development) as a means to embody the very story he's telling, about the complicated ways in which people hold on to the past. And, as a film that's as much about László's painful history as it is about America's past, it makes for an aesthetic refutation of one of its biggest influences: Ayn Rand.
The Brutalist remixes and transforms The Fountainhead
The Brutalist owes much of its story and structure to Rand's The Fountainhead, from its basic premise of an uncompromising architect, to plot developments like László being plucked from toil and obscurity to create something lasting; he shovels coal for a period, the same way Rand's hero Howard Roark worked in a granite quarry. But as visualized in King Vidor's much-maligned 1949 film version of the book — which stars Gary Cooper, and for which Rand herself wrote the screenplay — Modernist and Brutalist architecture take on a fascistic tone in The Fountainhead. They become about leaving the past behind, and shaking off the influences of Graeco-Roman styles, in favor of a "form flows from function" approach. This function-first belief, though it has older origins, was notably espoused by Adolf Hitler, who abhorred "stupid imitations of the past."
Brutalism, though it has more egalitarian origins like low-income social housing, does have a stylistic and philosophical overlap with totalitarian architecture. Both come to similar aesthetic conclusions — the angular, the monochrome, the display of materials — albeit for very different reasons. Vidor's The Fountainhead, in which Roark creates in a Modernist style verging on Brutalist, arguably does a disservice to form, both as an architectural concept, and a filmic one. In Vidor’s story, the influence of the past is framed as a cloying, constraining force intent on snuffing out individuality, and the way that story is told is similarly functional (the film has its charms, but it's straightforward in its presentation, and rote in its delivery of dialogue).
Vidor's film is hardly a defining pillar of modern American politics, but Rand's Objectivist philosophies certainly are. Her rejection of collectivism both tapped into and subsequently clarified the heart of American capitalism — the very same heart Corbet puts on display, and presents as a magnetic force for László, pulling him toward more autocratic ideals. The Brutalist never expands on László’s political outlook, or that of his wife, because the movie's immigrant characters tend to tiptoe around these questions, from poor and wealthy Americans alike, at a time when foreigners (and communists) were looked upon with suspicion. However, Corbet leaves plenty by way of breadcrumbs to figure out what their beliefs might be, and how those beliefs come into immediate conflict with the ideals of their adopted home.
'The Brutalist' is, deep in its bones, a collectivist film that not only places immense emotional value on people and their history, but creates and embodies that value too.
Though he puts on an uncompromising front when it comes to his designs, László is always found compromising when it comes to belief, and the way he conducts himself. These are tensions The Brutalist works into every scene, making its gargantuan runtime seem like a piece of cake. It's a film from which you cannot look away, and wouldn't want to — even when it takes dark and dour turns, whose presentation verges on the phantasmagorical.
As much as The Brutalist is a film of steel and concrete, it's a film of the spirit too, and the way the soul is built and constructed from local materials. It's about all the things that make America, and make American stories. Ultimately, when the movie reveals a previously obscured detail about László's work, it makes for a devastating cinematic mic drop that reclaims even the Randian notion that Modernism, Brutalism, and progress at large are ideals that must be cut off from the past, and from connections to other human beings.The Brutalist is, deep in its bones, a collectivist film that not only places immense emotional value on people and their history, but creates and embodies that value too.
The Brutalist was reviewed out of its world premiere at the Venice International film Festival.