The Brutalist (2024)
The Brutalist is a cinematic monolith, towering and unyielding, much like the architectural style it’s named after. Brady Corbet’s latest opus is a behemoth of a film, clocking in at three and a half hours, that both enthrals and exasperates in equal measure.
Set against the backdrop of post-World War II America, the film follows László Tóth, a Hungarian-Jewish architect portrayed with raw, unflinching intensity by Adrien Brody. László’s journey is a tightrope walk between assimilation and artistic integrity, a dance on the knife-edge of the American Dream.
Brody’s performance is nothing short of revelatory. He inhabits László with such visceral authenticity that you can almost taste the bitter tang of his struggles. Every furrowed brow, every clenched jaw speaks volumes about the weight of history and expectation bearing down on this man. It’s a masterclass in restrained anguish, a slow-burn portrayal that simmers with barely contained emotion.
Corbet’s direction is bold to the point of recklessness. He wields the camera like a sculptor’s chisel, carving out stark vistas of post-war America that are as beautiful as they are unforgiving. The VistaVision cinematography by Lol Crawley is a feast for the eyes, each frame composed with painterly precision. The brutalist structures that punctuate the landscape serve as silent characters, their imposing forms a concrete manifestation of László’s inner turmoil.
The screenplay, penned by Corbet and Mona Fastvold, is ambitious to a fault. It grapples with weighty themes—the immigrant experience, anti-Semitism, the corrupting influence of wealth—with admirable zeal. Yet, like an overeager architect, it sometimes overreaches, leaving certain narrative structures feeling unstable.
Guy Pearce, as the wealthy industrialist who commissions László’s magnum opus, is a study in affable menace. His performance is a masterful balancing act, charm and threat coexisting in unsettling harmony. Felicity Jones, as László’s wife Erzsébet, brings a quiet strength to her role, though one can’t help but feel her character is somewhat shortchanged by the script.
Daniel Blumberg’s score is a character unto itself, a haunting soundscape that seeps into the cracks of the narrative, filling the spaces between words with unspoken emotion. It’s a perfect complement to the visual storytelling, enhancing the atmosphere without ever overpowering it.
Where The Brutalist falters is in its pacing. The film’s epic runtime isn’t always justified, with certain sequences feeling like indulgent digressions rather than essential narrative building blocks. The intermission, while a quaint nod to cinema’s golden age, serves more as a much-needed breather than a dramatic fulcrum.
Yet, for all its flaws, The Brutalist is a film that burrows under your skin and takes up residence in your psyche. It’s a challenging, often uncomfortable viewing experience that forces us to confront the darker aspects of the American Dream. It’s a film that doesn’t just ask questions but demands answers—from its characters and its audience alike.
In the end, The Brutalist is like the architectural style it’s named after—imposing, uncompromising, and not to everyone’s taste. It’s a film that will polarise audiences, inspiring passionate debate. For those willing to grapple with its complexities, it offers a rich, if sometimes frustrating, cinematic experience.
So, grab a good supply of refreshments, settle into a comfortable seat, and prepare yourself for a cinematic journey that’s as gruelling as it is rewarding. The Brutalist may not be a perfect film, but it’s one that will leave an indelible mark on your cinematic psyche.