Director: Brady Corbet
Starring: Adrien Brody, Felicity Jones, Guy Pearce, Joe Alwyn, Raffey Cassidy, Stacy Martin, Emma Laird, Alessandro Nivola, Isaach de Bankolé, Jonathan Hyde, Ariane Hyde, Peter Polycarpou
Running Time: 215 min.
Rating: R
**The Following Review Contains Plot Spoilers For 'The Brutalist' **
Brady Corbet's uncompromising epic period drama The Brutalist lives up to its title, pulling no punches in exploring a fascinatingly flawed figure who never existed, but sure feels like he could have. And with every shot, scene and performance conveying an astounding amount of authenticity, you're convinced this amalgam of various Hungarian architects was a real person whose life and work we should already know.
In one sense, the film can be categorized a fictitious biopic along the lines of 2022's Tár, examining the psychology of a creative genius who unravels before our eyes. But the difference here is that we know this protagonist is a victim, his survival dependent on pretending not to care what anyone else says or thinks. And even after all he's gone through, his fate still depends on how others judge
him, as the trauma of his worst days continue to linger. Unfortunately, its aftermath proves to be a whole different kind of awful he'll continue to feel equally powerless against.
Broken into four chapters that include an overture and 15 minute intermission, its gargantuan running length of nearly three and a half hours is as meticulously constructed by editor Dávid Jancsó as the buildings designed by the film's long suffering architect. Corbet's steady direction combined with Lol Crawley's impressive cinematography infuses each scene with the idea of an unattainable American dream, jarringly represented by its skewed opening titles and an early inverted shot of the Statue of Liberty that plays with perspective in ways that challenge our own.
When Hungarian-Jewish Holocaust survivor László Tóth (Adrien Brody) reaches the shores of New York Harbor in 1947 after being forcibly separated from his family, the Bauhaus trained architect is taken in by his cousin Attila (Alessandro Nivola) in Pennsylvania. While Attila gives him a room to stay and employment at his furniture store, his Catholic wife Audrey (Emma Laird) is less than thrilled, looking to nudge László out. But when the cousins are hired to renovate wealthy industrialist Harrison Lee Van Buren's (Guy Pearce) mansion library at the behest of his son Harry (Joe Alwyn), Harrison's initial displeasure leads to an about-face, prompting him to commission László for the job of a lifetime.
This project, a tribute to Harrison's late mother, will be known as the Van Buren Institute, a community center in Doylestown intended to house a library, gymnasium, theater and chapel. Despite the millionaire retaining final say, he gives László's free reign over the risky endeavor, even arranging the expedited immigration of his wheelchair bound wife Erzsébet (Felicity Jones) and mute, orphaned niece Zsófia (Rafey Cassidy) back to the states to live on the property. But while Harrison views them as unwelcome interlopers and starts undermining László's vision to stay on budget, the gifted builder senses he and his family's future being threatened by this jealous and manipulative man.
A survivor of Germany's Buchenwald concentration camp, a teary eyed László arrives in America with hope for a new start, only to find himself treated like dirt. Initially, Atilla seems more than willing to help, but it isn't long before signs emerge that he sees László as an unwelcome obstacle jeopardizing his own assimilation into American culture. Having already changed his name and converted to Catholicism for his wife, Attila's clearly threatened by the idea of this Jewish relative blowing up his carefully manufactured reputation.
That only marks the beginning of László's exploitation, as he's granted opportunities by those looking to control someone they view as lesser. But since bigots aren't typically self-aware or prone to announcing their prejudices, they'd feign shock at such supposedly outrageous allegations. So what starts as plausibly deniable microaggressions grow until a convenient excuse to get rid of László falls right into Atilla and Audrey's laps.
Strung out on heroin and working construction, László doesn't have much choice but to hear out the mercurial, hotheaded Harrison Lee Van Buren, who hints at his despicableness right off the bat. True to character, he can't recognize his new library's greatness until those with actual taste let him know and start giving it attention. Now privy to László's architectural prowess, an apologetic Harrison is suddenly grateful and generous, bending over backwards to make amends.
Despite László having this guy all figured out, the job is still a sacrifice he needs to make for his family and career, regardless of the abuse it'll undoubtedly entail. But he'll get caught in a vicious circle that reaches a crescendo in the film's divisive second part when ground is finally broken on the Van Buren Institute. As Erzsébet and Zsófia settle in at the mansion, the enormity and logistical complications of the project begin to take its toll. Or more accurately, Harrison does, as the pompous industrialist's need for dominance reveals his true contempt for these outsiders.
Blown over by his "intellectually stimulating" conversations with László, Harrison appears genuinely excited to be in the company of a thinker who represents everything he isn't. And that's exactly the same reason he aims to belittle him, filling an empty void his wealth never will. Pearce is so brilliant in the complicated role, turning on the charm when necessary, but showing enough shades of humanity to have us holding out hope Harrison's intentions still might be genuine. Of course, they're not, his arrogance rivaled only by his Richie Rich-like nepo baby son, who Joe Alwyn plays with smug depravity in the film's unsung supporting turn.
The most transfixing facet of Brody's work is what's shown rather than said, whether it's through his wiry body language, mournful eyes, or even the occasional fits of rage. But while László's assembled a collection of coping mechanisms to internalize the discrimination, he reaches a breaking point when his brutalist design plans are altered by Harrison and his contractors. Once the project quite literally flies off the rails, Harrison dumps him like yesterday's garbage, or at least until he's needed again.
The controversial rape scene is cited by detractors as a bridge too far, but Harrison's been metaphorically raping László the whole time, with this event representing the physical manifestation of that. It'll understandably alter him, causing a rift with Erzsébet that only worsens when he gets her hooked on drugs.
Played with a mixture of desperation and ferociousness by Jones, Erzsébet emerges as the film's most fearless character by still having her husband's back under the worst of circumstances. Had the rape not been spoken of again, you could classify it as gratuitously over-the-top, but it instead results in finding enough courage to do what's right. Harrison disappearing into the shadows may frustrate some, but it's an honest depiction of how cowards run and hide when confronted with the incriminating truth.
If the whole film can be read as a symbolic assault on art by commerce, 1980's Venice Biennale of Architecture epilogue is one of the more inventive, purposeful uses of a time jump you'll see, revealing not only how long it took to complete this monolithic project, but the painful motivation behind László's aesthetic choices. It represents a larger battle America's waged with itself as creative minds continue paying the price for
the stranglehold a select few in power hold over them. In the end, it turned out to be just another job.
In one sense, it's a tragedy that this rich man's greed and insecurity monopolized the time and skill of an artist with more to give. Then again, he still persevered enough to be remembered and appreciated in a manner unattainable at any other stage of his journey, adding poignancy to middle-aged Zsófia's speech about the destination being what matters. László being forced to compromise returns us to the theme of artists ceding control to their clients, a notion ironically expressed in the obscure Italian disco song that plays over the film's closing credits.
A colossal achievement, The Brutalist takes an ambitious detour
from previous award contenders by focusing entirely on the Holocaust's
fallout, specifically in terms of its impact on art and culture. Corbet and co-writer Mona Fastvold's script converges with staggering set pieces, clinical execution and an industrial sounding score from Daniel Blumberg to create a savage spectacle that puts capitalism's effects on identity under a high power microscope. Ripe for repeated viewings, closer inspection reveals just how ambitious this is, taking wild swings at every turn while continuing to frustrate and
perplex those certain they've figured it all out.
Posts
