'The Brutalist' Is An Ambitious, But Hollow, Grasp At Greatness | Review
The Three-Time Golden Globe Winner Takes Some Pretty Big Swings
Author’s Note: Spoilers for the film ‘The Brutalist’ are mentioned. Please be advised.
I hate brutalist architecture. Yes, it’s sturdy and can withstand the petty erosion of time, but it's also cold and inhuman—the architectural equivalent of a calculus equation. It neither arouses the soul nor inspires beauty. It represents the suffering humanity can inflict upon each other, yes, but it does little to nothing to connect us to the larger world we inhabit. While imposing from the outside, the glass, steel, and concrete construction denigrates its human occupants as little more than cogs in a machine, not individuals with agency, purpose, or possibility. It is a nihilistic reminder of the ugliness in our nature with no appeals to our better angels. Born out of a world at war, it does not inspire peace. It’s a memorial to despair and evil and suffering. More often than not, it reminds me of Thomas Hobbes’ noted sentiment about the state of nature: cold, brutish, nasty.
Want proof?
Pull up an image of the J. Edgar Hoover Building in Washington, D.C. That should be all the proof you need. The movie in question, Brady Corbet’s three-time Golden Globe-winning The Brutalist, often feels like a brutalist creation of the film’s titular architect, László Tóth: A grand, immovable piece of art aspiring to greatness that, somehow, feels hollow.
Spanning nearly a decade (three if counting the film’s epilogue), The Brutalist explores the dramatic American life of Hungarian-Jewish architect and Holocaust survivor László Tóth (Adrien Brody) and his wealthy benefactor Harrison Lee Van Buren (Guy Pearce) as the two men set out on an ambitious project in the Pennsylvania countryside. As the project continues, László’s pursuit of the American Dream grows increasingly dark as he and his wife Erzsébet (Felicity Jones) struggle to succeed in the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave.
Much ink has been used exploring the unique production of this “micro-epic,” especially the decision of shoot the picture in an all-but-dead format of VistaVision, 35mm film stock on a shoe-string budget of $10 million. Last used in 1964, The Brutalist beautifully attempts to capture the grain and texture of the Golden Age of Hollywood—and in that, it is a remarkable achievement. What could have easily been nothing more than a marketing ploy to bring in cinephiles, Corbet and DP Lol Crawley’s ability to take this analog format of filmmaking and modernize it through hand-held cinematography gives the picture both the tint of antiquity and a thoroughly modern sensibility. It looks like few films made today; it’s technical precision alone is something to behold.
Narratively, the film is less impressive. Divided into two acts, Corbet and co-writer Mona Fastvold struggle to keep the subtext of film in its place. Thematically, the precision of the film’s first act— titled “The Enigma of Arrival”— lies in how Corbet and company keep the societal, economic, and repressed sexual tensions between Tóth and his American benefactors simmering just under the surface. We know it’s there, we can feel in every element of the film. It’s what makes the first act such a success in moviemaking; so much so that it leaves the audience wanting more when the ‘Intermission’ title card and countdown appears.
However, once the lights dimmed and we are transported into the film’s second act—titled “The Hard Core of Beauty”— we find that those simmering tensions have become the literal text of the film. While we knew one of the primary themes of the movie is that America’s wealthy, to put it bluntly, have f***ed over the “huddled masses yearning to breathe free,” the decision to depict Pearce’s Van Buren raping Tóth feels lazy. And if the first act is marked by its storytelling precision, Corbet takes the latter half of the film to reach for greatness, often stumbling in the process. We jump across states, through time, and over oceans. There are new characters, incredible visual montages, moments of emotional catharsis, and even a few Oscar-baiting speeches. But, like the architectural style the film is named after, it all feels relatively hollow.
Part of the blame can be set at the feet of the screenplay. But not all of it. Enter: Oscar-nominee Felicity Jones, best known for The Theory of Everything and Rouge One: A Star Wars Story. While a perfectly fine actor, Jones is woefully miscast as Tóth’s wife, Erzsébet. Confined to a wheelchair due to osteoporosis, Jones’s performance feels more appropriate alongside Boris and Natasha from The Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle. Her accent work is comical and the makeup designed to help her look sickly belongs in Annabelle rather than an Oscar-caliber picture. She struggles to hold her own against both Brody and Pearce, each providing career best performances, and against the backdrop of the larger film. In a moment of emotional catharsis at the climax of the movie, we’re expected to be shocked by Erzsébet’s act of defiant bravery. It landed with a thud (I promise, that’s not a joke about her osteoporosis).
All that being said, The Brutalist is worth watching if only because it tries to be great. I mean, it really tries. Evoking imagery and ideas at the heart of Coppola’s greatest works of the 1970s, Corbet announces to the world “I am here and I have something important to say.” We don’t see that enough in movies. In a world of content defined by mediocrity, it is so apparent how his cast and crew really tried to make something so singular that it demanded to be seen and appreciated. That should be celebrated. Even if its not always successful, The Brutalist is a good reminder of the possibilities of cinema and, given its recent success over wider releases like Kraven the Hunter, offers promise that audiences still want stories that test us. Should it be leading the Gold Derby when the horses enter the final lap on Oscar Sunday, I would not be mad— even if I do hate brutalist architecture.
“The Brutalist” is now playing in select theaters. Rated R for strong sexual content, graphic nudity, rape, drug use and some language.