Between the film’s enigmatic theatrical rollout and A24’s vainglorious promotion, The Brutalist arrived in cinemas like a mythical creature unearthed from tundra ice. It became a film legend before it even reached release, and it’s managed to maintain its cryptic draw into an awards season it’s poised to dominate.
Sadly though, The Brutalist’s titanic showboating is all bark and no bite. The film’s crushing monument of feverish artistic pursuit is built on a cracked and splintered foundation, if there is a foundation at all. While it explodes onto the screen with fiery intent, it quickly snuffs itself out beneath its own ambition, chasing its own tail in circles for most of its late runtime.
The opening scene of The Brutalist is instantly iconic, and it knows it. The inverted image of Lady Liberty looms over the frame like a hulking monster. Punctuated by Daniel Blumberg’s deceivingly triumphant horns, the image welcomes us to an America bursting with both vitality and malevolence. Undeniably, The Brutalist begins with a declaration that the next few hours will set the new standard of American epics. Brady Corbet’s behemoth historical epic continues to balloon in size as it chronicles the personal and creative life of Jewish architect Laszlo Toth after his arrival in America during World War Two.
Corbet makes the bold decision to slice his movie in half, interrupted by an admittedly intriguingly placed intermission. While acting as a welcome reprieve during the film’s grueling 215-minute runtime, the intermission also functions to thematically bisect the narrative. Part one is the stylish rise of Laszlo Toth, the architect. Corbet flexes all his directorial muscles in every scene, declaring this story as extraordinary and proving it. From the opening seconds, part one’s technical wizardry never ceases to dazzle. The hyper-stylized sequences of physical craft and labor effortlessly weave with the heavier drama moments. For the first several minutes, the film plays out like effortless magic. The beautiful cinematography and unique score form a base for the film to glide over like ice.
However, part one is all build up. We get our glimpses of narrative threads, but by the intermission they stay loose and unfinished. While an enjoyable exercise in directorial prowess, part one ends without making much of a dent at all. Beneath the visual flourish is a pretty standard narrative, one that has spent 90 minutes setting up all the pins for part two to knock down. There’s nothing inherently wrong with that approach. In fact, it’s hard not to feel caught up in the spectacle when the intermission cuts into the film. But with this, Corbet is playing with fire. Part two holds a lot of weight on its shoulders. Part one’s basic plot could essentially be told in a few sentences: 1. A radically talented Jewish architect is met with poverty and discrimination upon his arrival to America. 2. However, when his work is noticed by a wealthy industrialist, he is commissioned to bring to life his greatest project yet. 3. He seemingly finally finds a place to call home and can afford to bring his wife and niece back to America with him. So, with the emphasized arrival of part two, Corbet promises us an explosion. The spinning plates are about to shatter, and the patient, hypnotizing form carrying this sturdy melodrama, is about to wildly explode. But it doesn’t necessarily go that route...
Part two is the bitter fall of Laszlo Toth, the man. Part two slips up fast and spectacularly unravels as the dazzling theatrics of part one fade in the distance. The film is swallowed by its own ambition and lifelessly retreads standard contemporary drama beats until it reaches a weary conclusion. The largest misstep of part two is the very moment that kicks it off, the arrival of Laszlo’s wife, Erzsebet. Erzsebet’s absence in part one propels the narrative. Her mysterious effect on Laszlo and the repercussion of her imminent arrival forms the core of the 15-minute intermission. She’s a character so powerful her appearance alone halts the film in its tracks.
Yet when she appears, the narrative derails completely. Her character is afflicted with so many bizarre writing choices, it hardly feels like she’s from the same film. Despite Felicity Jones’ admirable efforts, her character ends up fading into a one-dimensional obstacle. The film seems to dually blame the narrative’s unfortunate ending on Laszlo’s own destructive ambition as well as the burdensome nagging of his wife that meddles with his path to success. She is positioned as an obstacle to greatness, and while she may be correct, the film would rather have her writhe, scream, and complain then fight for her position. This is another entry in the unfortunate contemporary drama tradition of “the genius’ wife”. It’s the strange and misogynistic writing trope where the “nagging wife” figure becomes a conduit for every obstacle faced by the central male genius. Erzsebet is always a victim of Laszlo’s unrestrained reckless genius, her only autonomy is unsuccessful defiance to the central male figure. This character pulls the curtain back on all The Brutalist’s narrative tricks to reveal an absent center.
While Erzsebet is the head scratching story addition leading the charge, The Brutalist is afflicted with several baffling choices that draw it to a disappointing close.
Despite its intent to deliver the definitive modern American saga, the film ends up retreading familiar ground. After a bold and promising intro, The Brutalist soon finds itself going through the standard motions, albeit with a touch of artistic flourish and more than a touch of smugness. As the film reveals more about Laszlo, the enigmatic signs of drug addiction, infidelity, and emotional instability touched upon in part one become obnoxiously robust pillars of the narrative. The film falls radically short of shattering expectations and instead tediously conforms to the formula established by so many dramas before it.
Occasionally, The Brutalist will take a narrative swing. However, they come across as feeble beneath the film’s crushing style. The film’s moments of character growth and narrative twists come absent of character, performing for the service of the film’s identity, not story. Many are cruel and shocking left turns, but not in any interesting way. Devoid of context, they’re massive moments, but here, they’re nothing but noise.
The film ends up voraciously moving on autopilot to an ending that awkwardly dwindles to a close. The epilogue comes after the brutal finale of part two, one that concludes the narrative with a stunning close that almost proved a saving grace. The epilogue serves as a clumsy “where are they now?” showing Laszlo attending a retrospective of his work being held in Venice. His niece, Zsofia, explains the inspiration behind his work and celebrates his genius. It’s a far cry from the thunderous note of the opening some 200 minutes ago. If it’s good for anything, it reiterates Laszlo’s mysterious mantra: it is the destination, not the journey. A bitterly ironic statement considering the film’s obsession with its own legacy and negligence of how to get there.
The Brutalist seems to be more occupied with the idea of The Brutalist than The Brutalist itself. It’s a chase for greatness that trips over every obstacle since it can’t pry its eyes away from the trophy. Still, I’d be lying if I didn’t call it impressive. It’s stunning, the fingerprints of everyone involved are visible on every gorgeous frame. Sequences in the film play out with such formal ingenuity I had to take a moment to admire the fact that they happened at all. The opening, Erzsebet’s arrival, the library construction, the end of part two, all these moments are spectacular microcosms of undeniably incredible filmmaking. However, stringing these striking moments of near perfection together is a story that’s paper thin. It ends up bogged down by its own ambitions, almost as though it had an “originality budget” and it was strategically spread over particular elements of the film.
Like the architectural work of Laszlo Toth, The Brutalist is imposing and inorganic. It’s a methodical titan, brazenly showcasing its relentless commitment to spectacle like a concrete peacock. It’s easy to be impressed, but nothing else manages to make much of an impact. Its writing comes across rushed, a scramble to scrounge together disparate parts to construct the ambitious monument to art Corbet and co. promised. The film feels like the blueprints to something magic. Intricate craftsmanship and lofty goals, but unlike Laszlo Toth, the film never breaks ground. For 215 minutes, what The Brutalist is supposed to be lingers over the final product. It’s a frustrating exercise in repetition in lieu of progress, perhaps a brilliant metaphor for its protagonist’s own carnivorous relationship with art, but more likely a weak attempt at a difficult balancing act. Despite the beauty, The Brutalist crumbles under scrutiny. Its beautiful veneer cracking at the slightest touch and disintegrating to a fine powder when confronted with its own expectations with itself. The Brutalist tells you that it’s destined for immortality, but it's speaking against the din of its self-made opposition.
It would seem to me that The Brutalist will remain ever short of its self-proclaimed film legend status. An enormous feat of technicality and visual splendor, but one that rings eerily hollow once you step foot through the door.