‘The Brutalist’ Review
Architecture is an inherently fascinating artistic process because it serves a utilitarian purpose with the potential to be embellished with creativity and soul. Something as mundane as the chair you sit in every day has these tiny features that unite to craft something remarkable. Brutalism is one such architectural style that has historically been viewed as utilitarian as it makes the process of designing it visible in its appearance—raw concrete structures are erected to display an abrasive minimalism that forces the spectator to look beyond the materials used to see its beauty. Unsurprisingly, the tenets of brutalism find commonalities within the cinema of writer-director Brady Corbet and serve as the structure for his latest film. An ambitious and stirring work that builds upon the stylistic tendencies of Corbet’s past films, The Brutalist is staggering in almost every sense of the word.
Written by Corbet and his partner, Mona Fastvold, there’s almost too much to unpack from the colossal scope of their screenplay without reducing the nuance to far too simplistic terms. However, that’s precisely why The Brutalist cannot be untangled from the architectural style it spotlights. Through a single character, Corbet and Fastvold weave a textured, sweeping epic about post-war trauma, capitalism, class disparity, racism, substance abuse, the promise of a better future and the illusion of freedom within the American dream of the 1950s. Much like the monolithic structure that Jewish-Hungarian architect László Tóth (Adrien Brody) is commissioned to create for industrialist tycoon Harrison Lee Van Buren (Guy Pearce), there is so much suffering lurking within its design that, upon first glance, the full extent of The Brutalist seems impossible to appreciate completely. As the film progresses, it provides the audience with discrete confrontations of the material that further unfurls the tragedies embedded in the post-war immigrant experience.
However, The Brutalist is also, undoubtedly, a film about the artistic process and the system that sees artists cut down in the blink of an eye. László was a successful architect in Central Europe but was forced to flee to America after World War II. Leaving behind his wife, Erzsébet (Felicity Jones), and niece, Zsófia (Raffey Cassidy), the architect finds work with his cousin, Attila (Alessandro Nivola), who provides László a place to sleep in the back of his furniture store and work helping Attila’s clients. It’s when Harry Lee (Joe Alwyn), Mr. Lee Van Buren’s son, commissions Attila and László to redesign his father’s library that tensions begin mounting within László’s professional life. There’s a casual abuse that László faces as he enters America, replacing one literal prison with an entirely new one: the illusion of freedom provided by those in power. A library project soon turns into a new community center to be built in honour of Lee Van Buren’s late mother. László sees this as an opportunity to leave his own legacy. The promise to create something that will stand as a reminder in the face of cruelty fuels László’s endeavour, and it’s that artistic passion that imbues The Brutalist with an unwavering commitment to art as expression.
Corbet’s films have, at this point, ironed out a particular aesthetic. From the opening credits overlaid upon sweeping camera movements from regular cinematographer Lol Crawley—who is doing career-best work here—to the distinct demarcation of the film through chapters, The Brutalist is formally very similar to the director’s past works. It’s also unsurprising to see the movie dedicated to the memory of Scott Walker, who unfortunately passed away in 2019, as Daniel Blumberg’s score carries a similar dissonance in its orchestration that Walker brought to Corbet’s previous films, The Childhood of a Leader and Vox Lux. Blumberg’s score differs in how The Brutalist presents itself: epic in scope and ultimately a story powered by adversity—hopeful piano-driven moments and grandiose sections of the score complement the film’s use of VistaVision for filming. It’s a massive picture made gargantuan in scope simply from the tools employed in its execution.
While still treading darker territory with many of its themes, the film manages to be cruel while still carrying this tiny bit of hope. The images on display are tremendous reminders of the tactile, demonstrating the painstaking work that goes into something beautiful. You can appreciate the same physicality in the performances of Brody and Jones, both of whom embody characters broken down spiritually and physically by their past and present but still persevere through anguish. Brody’s performance carries with it a soulfulness that shines through the no-nonsense demeanour of László and illuminates the passion between Erzsébet and himself. The Brutalist is remarkable in many ways, but its ability to give room for its performances to breathe helps flesh out characters that would otherwise feel overbearing. Such is the case with Lee Van Buren, whose despicable nature is almost comical in how villainous he is. However, thanks to the space provided for Pearce, it becomes a much more complex feeling character while still representing the desired intent.
Every element of The Brutalist’s being is so deeply ingrained into its construction that it doesn’t fully unlock itself until its epilogue. From there, every fragmented idea comes together succinctly. The trauma that has laced every fibre of László’s being—singular and universal in its presence throughout the film—is spoken to with the confidence that a work of art should yield upon completion. It speaks to the monumental achievement of birthing art into the world and the meaning that can’t possibly be grasped without understanding one’s history—those lived experiences that dictate how we approach the world and the unseen forces that cripple and siphon us further away from our intended destination. The Brutalist seeps into the viewer's consciousness, and even with an epilogue to help make sense of the whole, it’s a film that will likely reward audiences most with subsequent viewings.
Of course, discussion will always gravitate towards the lengthy runtime of The Brutalist, which clocks in at 3 hours and 34 minutes, including a 15-minute intermission—which is welcomed even if the film moves at a wonderful pace—and an overture. In an era where massive films like this are rarely made and those that are are usually dismissed for being too unwieldy or never spoken of if they don’t cross a specific threshold of interest, The Brutalist perfectly encapsulates its architectural style. On the outside, it seems daunting and oppressive. It’s the kind of film that people who sneer at awards tend to believe is being made ad nauseam and specifically to receive acclaim from snooty art critics while eluding the mainstream’s understanding. However, stepping into a cinema’s hallowed walls offers audiences a glimpse into the soul of an artist—the soul of László and the film’s director, who has crafted an American epic that stands as a monument to the potential of film.
