The Brutalist: A Monumental Epic With an Unsteady Foundation

Split into two parts, fit with a prologue, epilogue, and 15-minute intermission, The Brutalist does a lot of work to earn its over three-hour runtime. The story, saddled with heavyweight performances from Adrien Brody, Guy Pearce, and Felicity Jones, gracefully moves through the first half, offering compelling characterizations and moments of pure architectural beauty. But grave errors in the second part halt the film’s momentum, and the emotional force of the feature is undermined entirely in the epilogue. There’s so much great filmmaking in The Brutalist—at least in the first half—and it’s a shame director and co-writer Brady Corbet didn’t know when to quit, instead allowing the historical drama to collapse underneath its colossal weight. 

Part I: The Enigma of Arrival

The film opens with Brody’s Lászlo Tóth maneuvering through dark swarths of bodies as he makes his dizzying trip to America in the wake of the Holocaust, during which he was separated from his wife (Jones) and teenage niece. We learn about his wife’s current condition through a letter read by voiceover, setting up the desperate plight of our lead characters and orienting ourselves within László’s anguishing circumstances. He’s been uprooted, exiled, and emerges from his long journey to see the Statue of Liberty, jutting up into the sky at a cockeyed angle. After spending one night in New York City with the affections of a sex worker, László boards the bus to Philadelphia, the city of brotherly love and new promise for the man forced to start anew. Here, Lászlo’s rocky journey begins.

With the introduction of László’s cousin Attila (Alessandro Nivola), The Brutalist examines the complex reactions to social isolation and othering. Attila serves as the model of conformity: he tries to suppress his Jewish identity and broadcast himself as the all-American businessman, with the beautiful Catholic wife to match (played by Emma Laird). Although László garnered great success in Budapest as an architect, he now finds himself at the whim of others’ generosity and expected to subjugate himself for their help, living in a storage closet and waiting in lines for meals from food banks. He’s seen by those around him as a foreigner, who remain wary of his work and intentions—something that will become a constant theme in László’s life. 

The Brutalist achieves its greatest emotional potency when it examines the precariousness of life’s balance, how many are just one slip—or personal slight—away from far more destitute circumstances. Lászlo’s always one step from losing his grip on the opportunity with which America’s cup supposedly runneth over. The fragility of life and all that we achieve within it bares itself in every scene, as Lászlo tries to build himself again in the individualist wasteland of American capitalism. Brody’s performance feels fully realized and visceral, making László all the more sympathetic, yet imbued with the same complicated, human ambitions within us all. In this, The Brutalist becomes akin to Todd Field’s Tár, with a story and central character so embedded in realism it feels plucked from our cultural history. 

Ultimately, László wishes to create his new life on his own terms and does not feel the need to feign niceties and grovel for opportunity. He’s blunt and unwavering in his opinions, which rubs those around him the wrong way, particularly the ones who believe they are owed much more for their charity. If anything, László’s unwavering character makes him all the more admirable, a delicate emotional line to tow, which Brody does naturally. He refuses to compromise in his vision or shed his cultural identity, which poses a perceived threat to Atilla and his wife. It’s not long before they dispose of him in order to maintain their image, but not before László oversees the creation of a new library for the wealthy industrialist Harrison Lee Van Buren (Guy Pearce), setting the course for the next decades of his life.

In the final scenes of part two, László attends a dinner party at the Van Buren’s as the guest of honor, giving Harrison a chance to show off the architect’s previous project and set the stage for his next one. While no explicit aggressions against Lászlo occur, judgemental stares and pearl clutching broadcast feelings of unease around the self-described foreigner, in particular from Harrison’s adult children, Harry Lee (Joe Alwyn) and Maggie (Stacy Martin). There’s a certain violence to the grandiose luxury of the party and its guests, with its exclusive and uncaring nature. Although some hands extend out in understanding and care, those less empathetic make their scrutiny clear: he’s not like them, and he’s not welcome. Despite these belittling gestures, the showcasing of László’s exquisite work and Harrison’s freshly minted devotion to the architect offer brief insulation. But the architect begins to deeply internalize these feelings of social isolation, putting him on the defensive at every single turn.

Lászlo never leaves the Van Buren party, making his home on the estate the next day and breaking new ground on his next project: a community center dedicated to Harrison’s recently deceased mother. László’s been given a fresh start—and with the help of a prominent lawyer, his wife and niece may make their way to Pennsylvania soon. As a viewer, you can’t help but feel as though it’s only going to get worse for László from here. During the built-in intermission, a feeling of despair lingers, anticipating unknown horrors for a man who’s clearly suffered enough. 

Part 2: The Hard Core of Beauty

With the arrival of László’s wife Erzsébet and niece Zsófia (Raffey Cassidy), a powerful emotive force comes in the form of Jones, who jolts the film with a new sense of empowered emotional intelligence. The first of many tragic surprises occurs when Erzsébet reunites with László, revealing she’s now wheelchair bound due the onset of osteoporosis. From there, the interpersonal collisions in László’s life start to occur more frequently, and with a heightened level of emotional whiplash. 

While the first part of The Brutalist maintained a consistent momentum with the development of László’s new life in America, the second part has the wind knocked from its sails when László’s massive ongoing project suddenly halts due to the derailment of a train carrying materials, which incites a years-long legal battle against the Van Buren family. 

With so much runtime left, you know the plot must continue forward somehow, and it does with a time jump and a move to New York City. By all accounts László, Erzsébet, and Zsófia have all moved on from the Van Buren family, but then he’s beckoned back to the project, forcing the architect and the viewer to reinvest in construction of the community center. While it may show misguided László’s dedication to his vision, the push and pull between New York City and Philadelphia, between overseeing the project or not, has little more narrative effect than killing time. 

After László returns to the Van Buren estate, there’s nothing left but utter destruction for him as he works relentlessly to bring his construction to life. The suffering begins to come in spades, becoming more jarring and confounding as part two progresses, culminating in an act by Harrison that feels shocking, unnecessary, and ultimately lazy. The litany of trauma and violence that unfolds seems unending, trading in a story of rebuilding one’s life for one of unfettered, meaningless suffering. While the first part of The Brutalist continuously builds up to something with poetic, inventive potential, the story becomes as hollow and cold as Brutalism itself, encasing itself within the concrete tombs of László’s creation. The awe-inspiring designs and captivating, warm character study give way to something that feels much more colossal in its cruelty. 

The epilogue—set in the ‘80s as László and his remaining family celebrate his illustrious life and career—fails on nearly every level: visually, emotionally, tonally, narratively. The slideshow-esque transitions become distracting and gaudy, cheapening the inventive visuals showcased during the film’s opening credits. The now-elderly László is not given a single line to express his own feelings about his life and career, and the scene’s ascribed meaning is expressed via a now-adult Zsófia (Ariane Labed) who says: "No matter what the others try and sell you, it is the destination, not the journey.” Additionally, Cassidy returns once again to play the adult Zsófia’s teenage daughter, a perplexing casting decision that feels as tacked on as the rest of the epilogue. 

The final scenes serve as an easy way to force a cheery conclusion to the all-in-all depressing epic—to assuage any guilt concerning the horrors of the Holocaust survivor’s life. But if we’re left to focus on the destination, Corbet deprives the journey we just spend three hours watching of any meaning at all.