'The Brutalist' Is a Masterful Condemnation of the American Fantasy
Director Brady Corbet's latest is a riveting saga.
“America is rotten.”
That potentially incendiary assertion is at the heart of The Brutalist, director Brady Corbet’s enrapturing new saga about the life of a Hungarian Jewish architect, László Tóth (there was a László Tóth in real life, but The Brutalist portrays a fictional character; he’s played by Adrien Brody, delivering a career-best performance).
After being trained at Bauhaus and surviving Buchenwald, László immigrates to America (the film frequently cuts to POV of shots speeding along a road, hurling us towards the future). Once there, he goes to live in Pennsylvania with an assimilated cousin (Alessandro Nivola) who has married a shiksa (Emma Laird), changed his name to be less Semitic, and converted to Catholicism. Eventually, happenstance brings László to the attention of a rich, WASP-y industrialist, Harrison Lee Van Buren Sr. (Guy Pearce, repulsive and droll in equal measures). Harrison becomes his patron, commissioning him to build a community center and helping to bring his wife, Erzsébet (Felicity Jones), and his niece, Zsófia (Raffey Cassidy) - who themselves survived Dachau - to the U.S. Initially, László seems to be living the American dream. Gradually, however, the tacit bigotry of Harrison, his adult children (Joe Alwyn and Stacy Martin), and seemingly every other non-immigrant László meets becomes not-so-tacit (“We tolerate you,” Alwyn’s character tells László), and László’s American dream becomes a nightmare.
It’s easy to read The Brutalist as being about the tension between art and commerce, especially given that director Brady Corbet reportedly spent seven years working on the project for no money (he also co-wrote the screenplay with his partner, Mona Fastvold). And in some ways, the movie is, indeed, about that tension (in some ways, the movie is about a lot of things). But what makes it such an intense viewing experience - and so relevant to the times in which we live - is the way it serves as a harsh condemnation of America’s self-serving fantasy regarding its own identity, particularly with regard to immigrants.
This is readily apparent from early on in the film, when László emerges from inside a boat as it approaches Ellis Island, and bursts with joy at the sight of the Statue of Liberty. This is a version of a scene we’ve watched a billion times before, with one notable exception: the camera bends backward from a close-up of László to a shot of Lady Liberty, giving the iconic statue the appearance of being upside down. The inversion is repeated much later in the movie, inside a Protestant chapel, with a cross, likening America’s most common religious sect to Satanism (The Brutalist will surely make Fox News pundits lose their minds, should they ever bother to see it); in another sequence, an encounter between László and Harrison literalizes the power dynamic between the two men in the bluntest terms possible.
If The Brutalist lacks subtlety, it also steers clear of sentimentality. László is a multi-faceted, sometimes opaque character who is often lovable and frequently infuriating. The specter of the Holocaust naturally looms over every facet of László’s being. His architectural designs - giant slabs of impenetrable concrete “devised to endure erosion,” with only the narrowest of windows to allow light inside - are representations of his character. László’s complicated relationship with sex; his substance abuse; his unwillingness to show emotional vulnerability, or to stand up for himself against false allegations; the way he alienates his only real friend (Isaach de Bankolé), a fellow immigrant and Black man who might very well understand what he’s going through; his stubborn refusal to compromise on any aspect of Harrison’s commission, even when it means forfeiting his fee: all of his self-destructive behaviors are, in fact, reflections of others’ attempts to destroy him.
For example: at one point, Harrison, discovering László in such a severe state of inebriation that he can’t even stand up, asks László how he can treat himself so poorly and then “reasonably expect” others (read: anti-Semites) to be kinder to him; but that’s just Harrison shifting the blame, failing to recognize that his horrible treatment of László is the very reason László is so full of self-loathing. It’s the psychological equivalent of telling someone to “stop hitting yourself” while forcefully beating them with their own hand.
Similarly, if less distressingly, László’s unwillingness to negotiate initially seems like an unwise sating of his ego, especially given that Erzsébet now requires a wheelchair and extensive medical attention due to physical damage sustained from being starved by the Nazis. Only in its final moments does The Brutalist reveal that there’s actually a very specific - and heartbreaking - reason why László insists on doing things his way.
Perhaps because they recognize trauma as a defining characteristic of the human psyche (dare I say the human soul?), Corbet and his co-writer (and life partner), Mona Fastvold, not only include the establishment of Israel as a major subplot, but do so in a manner that is most sympathetic to the plight of the Jews. This is an especially intriguing detail given that neither Corbet nor Fastvold are Jewish. I don’t believe The Brutalist can be interpreted as an endorsement of Zionist imperialism, but acknowledging the import of a Jewish state will still surely rub some viewers the wrong way. I think, in a larger sense, the narrative is arguing for the necessity of a haven for all people, given that the American ideal of being a place for the tired, the poor, and the huddled masses yearning to breathe free is inarguably illusory.
Much has been made of The Brutalist’s 215-minute runtime (including a 15-minute intermission), but unlike last year’s most notable 3½ hour historical epic, it never feels redundant or self-indulgent. It’s novelistic (and beautifully photographed, in 70mm VistaVision, by Lol Crowley), luring you into its engrossing story and allowing that story time to breathe. In fact, its biggest shortcoming may be that, insane as it may sound, it’s not long enough: the ending feels more than a little abrupt. Then again, The Brutalist lingers in the memory long after the credits roll; you may exit the theater, but you’ll never shake the ghost of László Tóth.