Courtesy of A24
Entering the final stretch of award season, Brady Corbet’s “The Brutalist” seems poised for Oscars success. The film, starring Adrien Brody, Felicity Jones and Guy Pearce, cleaned up last month’s Golden Globes, earning awards for Brady Corbet’s directing, Brody’s acting and being crowned the best drama motion picture of the year. It will be entering next month’s Oscars with 10 nominations — the second most of any film nominated this year. That said, the film is more than another award season darling — it is an ambitious and visually striking movie that challenges the myths of the American dream. Though its bleak narrative and measured pacing may not appeal to all viewers, it is an undeniably impressive cinematic achievement.
In the film’s opening scene, protagonist László Tóth (Brody), a Hungarian-Jewish Holocaust survivor, stumbles his way up from the depths of a ship transporting him from postwar Europe to New York City. As he ascends, the camera pivots into what the script describes as a “peculiar low-angle” shot, revealing a tilted, upside-down Statue of Liberty. The camera lingers on Lady Liberty as the score’s eerie strings and piano swell into triumphant horns before creeping back into the earlier strings. The moment evokes both awe and immense dread as the imposing statue looms above, echoing the emotions of millions who once arrived at Ellis Island. The shot, though deceptively simple, is one of the most striking in recent film history, encapsulating the film’s central themes.
Upon passing through Ellis Island, László reunites with his American cousin, Attila (Alessandro Nivola), who delivers life-altering news: László’s wife and niece — separated from him during the Holocaust — are alive but stuck in Europe. A Bauhaus-trained architect, László moves in with Attila, who owns a furniture store outside Philadelphia and begins working as a designer. The two soon receive a commission to renovate the library of wealthy industrialist Harrison Lee Van Buren (Guy Pearce), arranged by Van Buren’s son, Harry (Joe Alwyn). However, when the elder Van Buren learns of the project, he promptly dismisses them, refusing to pay for the work already completed. The project’s collapse strains László’s relationship with Attila, who soon makes it clear that his cousin has overstayed his welcome. With nowhere to turn, László finds himself out of work and homeless.
When we next see him, László is barely scraping by, shoveling coal, living in a charity house and addicted to heroin. This section is interlaced with wide shots of the industrial workscape László now occupies. At this low point in his life, László is approached by the very man who cast him aside — Harrison Lee Van Buren. Now aware of László’s architectural prominence, Van Buren extends an apology, repays the money he owes and invites László to his estate. Swept into Van Buren’s world, László is given lodging and commissioned for an ambitious project, his artistic vision placed at the whim of his wealthy patron. Yet as the project takes shape, it casts an increasingly ominous shadow — both literally and metaphorically — over the film.
Through Van Buren’s connections, László’s wife, Erzsébet (Felicity Jones) and his niece, Zsófia (Raffey Cassidy) are finally brought to America. However, László and Erzsébet soon realize that the Holocaust has irreversibly changed them. Erzsébet, weakened by years of malnutrition and illness in the camps, struggles with osteoporosis, while Zsófia has been rendered mute by her trauma. Their reunion is fraught not only with personal estrangement but also with the challenges of assimilating into American life. Meanwhile, construction on László’s project continues, its hulking form dominating the landscape of rural Pennsylvania. Lol Crawley’s expert cinematography and Daniel Blumberg’s score bring the sense of unease this project presents to life. Throughout, Corbet directs with a meticulous precision that may feel slow-burning to some, but his attention to atmosphere and symbolism ensures every frame carries weight. Eventually, financial constraints halt the project leaving the now-obsessed László once again unemployed and adrift.
“The Brutalist” wrestles with the myth of the American dream. “They don’t want us here,” László tells Erzsébet upon her expressed appreciation of America. This sense of rejection or not belonging is a constant in “The Brutalist.” Having fled genocide in Europe, László and his family arrive in America only to face continued discrimination — denied work, their names mispronounced and their status as outsiders reinforced at every turn. László finds himself repeatedly cast aside — first by his cousin, then by Van Buren and finally by the system itself — making the notion of belonging increasingly tenuous. His work is rejected repeatedly, first with the abandoned library project and then Van Buren’s later project due to financial limitations. Even Van Buren, who claims to be his friend, ultimately humiliates him, tossing coins at him in mockery of his immigrant status. László and Erzsébet, too, reject one another, unable to reconcile the people they once were with who they have become. In many ways, their family’s experience mirrors the broader reality of newly-arrived immigrants — welcomed in theory, yet ultimately alienated. For Zsófia, this disillusionment is even more pronounced — rather than remain in the country that sees her as an outsider, she chooses to leave, making aliyah to Israel in search of a home that America never offered.
Though László eventually resumes work on his project, the film’s sense of foreboding culminates when László is raped by Van Buren in an attempt to dominate the architect. Erzsébet overdoses on László’s heroin, and survives to confront Van Buren. The construction is left unfinished once again. In the film’s ambiguous conclusion, Erzsébet and László seem bonded by their trauma, with their love found once again. Van Buren, after being publicly confronted for his actions, disappears into the very structure he commissioned, leaving the fate of the project unresolved.
Decades later, an epilogue reveals that László ultimately built a successful and prominent career, with his later works showcased in an exhibit. The film closes with the line “It is the destination, not the journey.” This closing epigraph is also a statement about art, people and the nation itself — just as the film. It is not the journey America has taken that should be honored or revered, but the destination. Today, that destination may seem distant, even obscured, but it remains the ideal we must uphold above all else — the promise embodied by the Statue of Liberty, whether seen right-side-up or inverted.
The film reminds us not only of the America that could be but also of the America that is — a perfect self-portrait painted by Corbet. If you can find it within yourself to sit through its almost three-and-a-half-hour run time, you will find that “The Brutalist” is an unforgettable and impressive cinematic experience that is more relevant to the current American experience than ever.
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