From the damp, crowded, darkly lit hull of a ship – like Pinocchio confined inside the stomach of Monstro – The Brutalist (2024) opens on an anxious and distraught László Tóth (Adrien Brody), a Jewish Hungarian Holocaust survivor, brushing past people and looking for a way outside. It’s 1947, and Tóth is on his own. The rest of his family was separated in Budapest during WWII, with only corresponding letters between his wife, Erzsébet (Felicity Jones), acting as voiceover detailing her hopes and desires to be reunited.
This opening sequence crescendos to a harrowing, euphoric moment of relief and excitement as Brody embraces, hugs, and cheers with another passenger. They look outwards to the blue sky and the camera pans to an upside-down shot of the Statue of Liberty. At that moment, no adjective could describe the absolute joy I felt, as the firm, assured hands of writer/director Brady Corbet perfectly grasped all six lobes of my brain and I slipped into a cinematic high.
Corbet continues that high for the ensuing three-and-half hours, as he centers this seismic epic on the cursed underbelly of the American dream and the cost of creative fulfillment. Tóth treks from the hopeful grime of Ellis Island to the rip-roaring opening credits that follow Tóth to the green pastures of Pennsylvania to his eventual destiny with a wealthy, self-satisfied industrialist in Harrison Lee Van Buren (Guy Pearce). Corbet and co-writer Mona Fastvold construct an all-encompassing narrative that never collapses under the weight of its might due to the expertly confident direction and all-timer performance from Brody. He feels transformative without an ounce of the prosthetics that have aided most Best Actor winners.
Tóth is an accomplished architect, and before the war, a renowned one who was celebrated for his look of sleek modernism and minimalist design. Yet now, he finds himself starting over upon entering America. He takes refuge with his cousin Attila (Alessandro Nivola) in his brand-new furniture shop in Philadelphia. They take on a wealthy client in Harrison’s shady son, Harry (Joe Alwyn), to help renovate his father’s library as a surprise gift. Once the job is done, the uninformed Harrison throws a fit and throws them out and Harry withholds payment, causing Attila to have Tóth leave on his own.
Years later, Tóth finds work in a shipping yard, alongside his friend, Gordon (Isaach de Bankolé), and his son. Harrison tracks down Tóth and apologizes for his behavior, as he informs him that his library was featured in Look magazine and believes Tóth to be an extraordinary visionary. This skewed relationship will become the crux of Corbet’s film, as Tóth becomes acclimated to the extravagance and warm embrace of Van Buren, their back-and-forth dynamic leads to Tóth designing and creating an extravagant community center in honor of Van Buren’s late mother. The relationship becomes even more complicated, as Van Buren can help with the immigration status of Tóth’s wife and niece, Zsófia (Raffey Cassidy), who both are stuck in the Soviet Union after the war.
This tug-and-pull between the benevolent capitalist overlord and the passionate artist yearning for expression and identity in a foreign country gives the film its essence: What are the compromises one makes balancing art and commerce? Can an outsider who’s escaped persecution from antisemitism be truly welcomed due to his talents?
Like Tóth’s designs, these questions permeate every luscious, gorgeously constructed moment that Corbet and cinematographer Lol Crawley erect. Shot through VistaVision 35mm film stock, the film harkens back to the classic grainy 1970s era of filmmaking, where artists were given free rein to paint a portrait of America that underlined a sinister undertone of darkness and ugliness that could break through the shine born from a post-WWII America.
The bright green pastures of Pennsylvania lay the foundation for the rotting, ugly, grimy industrial age that looked down on people like Tóth, an immigrant displaced from his community and country yet taken advantage of due to his helplessness. People seek relief from the trauma endured through a global war and opportunity. Van Buren’s tolerance of Tóth only extends to his belief that he isn’t like other immigrants—he has a gift that can be exploited in favor of housing, money, security, and a burgeoning sense of acceptance.
Yet, the film extends beyond that and examines the elasticity of an America that welcomes outsiders but relegates them to a façade of meritocracy. Tóth can only achieve what he is allowed to by the confines of the box he’s placed in. Other designers and yes-men surround Van Buren to dismiss the lofty idealism of Tóth’s designs, yet Tóth feels like an avatar to the manner Corbet and company must have mounted such an epic. In an era that is becoming increasingly difficult for bold visionaries without the clout of Christopher Nolan or Martin Scorsese to make a handsomely-made epic on a budget one-tenth of a Nolan or Scorsese film, The Brutalist is an astonishing accomplishment by Corbet. Watching this dizzying labyrinth of a film makes you forget the decade-spanning scope of Tóth’s journey through the limited budget Corbet was afforded.
Brody is exceptional. With his wide-eyed optimism clouding the horrific trauma underneath his gentle face, Brody embodies Tóth in the same manner he portrayed his Oscar-winning role of Władysław Szpilman in The Pianist (2002). In a way, Tóth feels like an extension of that persona—a Jewish war-torn survivor with a unique gift in the arts. The two characters go together so much that it’s remarkable how Brody seamlessly slips into Tóth like a glove. His open vulnerability doesn’t diminish the mature growth he’s gone through, as the treatment and behaviors he experiences in America feel like tiny pricks against the immeasurable gut punch he’s experienced across Europe. It’s a beautiful performance that deserves all the accolades under the sun. It’s not just a journey chronicling a troubled person but an artist rediscovering his craft through the avenue of an altruistic capitalist.
Equally, Pearce rivals Brody’s prowess, as the smarmy, affluent, intellectual masquerading as a humanist when he’s more parasitic. Some of the film’s most effective humor comes at his expense, reminiscent of Phillip Seymour Hoffman in The Master (2012). Van Buren is self-satisfied and self-serving, but Corbet infuses him with enough dimensions that waver between comedic farce to insidiously carnivorous. He views Tóth as a means of legacy that can outlive his wealth. What better way to flaunt money than having a monument built to epitomize that wealth? It’s a bold performance that looms over Tóth like a micromanager with an affecting attitude, and certainly the best work of Pearce’s career.
Jones is tricky, in that she doesn’t appear until the second act of the film (this film is split between an intermission, and Jones appears after this break). Already she arrives in Tóth’s life as he’s excited and enthusiastic about his work and reuniting with his love. While the script doesn’t offer enough substantial material for Jones to sink her teeth into, her performance is warm and heartfelt. She brings a brightened joy to his life while the Van Burens take a liking to her education and open energy. Yet, she is confined to a wheelchair due to malnourishment and suffers from night terrors, which only their mute niece can assuage, that keep her frantic and that paint an undertone to her relationship with Tóth. The film increases her alienation from America, and her distance from Tóth becomes more pronounced. Her final confrontation with the Van Buren family allows her enough self-respect from the indignities she’s suffered due to her time in America, even when the film doesn’t offer enough of a conclusive point to her arc.
The second act does start to waver off from Corbet’s vision as Tóth becomes more addicted to drugs and the relationship between him, and Van Buren delves into nightmarish territories that feel rushed and underdeveloped. The final twenty minutes may lose some folks. For a film that is finely edited to incredible patience and consistent pace (credit to editor Dávid Jancsó), this portion of the film feels oddly forced and hampered by the narrative sprinting to an end that illustrates an obvious, blunt point regarding Tóth’s art.
Hyperbole isn’t always useful when talking about certain films. There’s a buzzing high when attempting to describe why a certain film affects me the way it does. Watching The Brutalist feels like reading a grand work of literature, similar to Steinbeck, Hemingway, or Melville, in which a singular authorial vision breaks through and you feel swept up in an expansive epic.
Through Crawley’s cinematography; Daniel Blumberg’s multifaceted score that sounds classically orchestral and inventive that reminds me of Johnny Greenwood’s work with Paul Thomas Anderson (the film itself feels perfectly in lineage with There Will be Blood and The Master); Judy Becker’s detailed, period-accurate production design noting the nostalgia of the booming landscape of Pennsylvania’s urban boom; and the pulsating sound design, Corbet has assembled the best craftspeople a budget under ten million could muster. For a project that feels like a phantom for the kind of films that once occupied cinemas, it’s, in short, a miracle.
Review Courtesy of Amritpal Rai
Image Courtesy of Variety via A24