The Brutalist

Rating 5/10

I went into The Brutalist with high hopes, and for a while, it felt like those expectations were being met. The initial chapters of the movie are extremely compelling.

László Tóth (Adrien Brody) is a Holocaust survivor determined to rebuild his life in the United States. A Bauhaus-trained architect, his designs embody an emerging movement called Brutalism. Arriving in the 1940s with little more than his potential, László steps off the boat in awe of the Statue of Liberty—a symbol of the second chance he’s been given. Ah, but the shrine is invented on its head, a hint that things are amiss. His wife Erzsébet (Felicity Jones) and niece Zsofia (Raffey Cassidy) remain behind in Hungary, making his journey even more difficult.

The setup draws you in. Settling in Philadelphia with his cousin Attila (Alessandro Nivola), László begins to greet the challenges of a new country. He must navigate a foreign land that’s equal parts opportunity and hostility. László’s early endeavors are relatable. The drama draws you in because his talent and ambition set him on a path toward redemption and success. The prospect of a fresh start is palatable. For a while, I thought I was watching a masterpiece in the making.

And then the second half happens.

It’s as if the film suddenly lost sight of what made László’s journey so captivating. The much-anticipated emotion within the pivotal reunion between László and his wife and niece is marred by Erzsébet’s embarrassment over being in a wheelchair. What should have been a profoundly poignant scene becomes a gloomy despair.

The plot involving Harrison Lee Van Buren (Guy Pearce) in the formative stages also holds significant promise. The wealthy industrialist becomes László’s key patron. But the account unravels as the subsequent developments fail to coalesce into something that dramatically moves forward. The film explores the tension between artistic integrity and the capitalist demands to save money, a fascinating theme. Yet, rather than building on this idea, it devolves into a repetitive lament: The emotional and human cost of chasing the American Dream is high. This message, hammered repeatedly in the second half, drains the saga of momentum. I was enervated by an overwhelming sense of narrative inertia.

As the credits rolled, I couldn’t shake the feeling that director Brady Corbet had fumbled the ball. The first act, which chronicles László’s rise, is meticulously crafted, engaging, and full of possibilities. Sadly, Corbet, who also co-wrote the screenplay with Mona Fastvold, doesn’t synthesize the plot elements into an impactful resolution. And that’s the real shame, given the mammoth scope and brilliant performances—the components were there. I was primed for an insightful exploration of post-war trauma and the immigrant experience. The decision to switch gears and prioritize a bleak mood over an involving story is supremely frustrating.

At three and a half hours, The Brutalist is undeniably a monument to cinema: visually striking, beautifully acted, but eventually exhausting. Epics like Gone with the Wind, The Ten Commandments, or Lawrence of Arabia justify their extreme length with rich, sprawling narratives. Conversely, this struggles to fill its similarly distended runtime with an equally riveting tale. Instead, it leaves you with an impressively long but hollow experience. Ultimately, The Brutalist is a towering edifice, its striking façade beckoning with power, yet within its imposing walls lies a twisty maze of empty rooms that all look the same.

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