The Brutalist

I knew nothing of director Brady Corbet before hearing all the buzz surrounding his latest feature coming out of Venice. But by the time I was fortunate enough to catch it as the closing night feature at IFFBoston Fall Focus, weeks before its general release, I could barely have been more excited.

One of the benefits of seeing an arthouse film so early is avoiding learning anything about it without trying, which is my ideal viewing experience. I'm a very adaptable audience member, open to all types of stories and genres and styles and such, enjoyment rarely influenced by my mood. Trailers help me determine level of interest and priority, but I'll watch anything. So if I know I intend to see a film, I limit how much I know about it ahead of time, if at all possible. It's usually quite difficult, but the stars aligned for me here.

So going in, I knew three things:

1. The Brutalist is 3 ½ hours in length, including its burnt-in 15-minute intermission.
2. The Brutalist stars Adrien Brody.
3. The Brutalist was being described in rapturous terms as an American epic.

That was enough, especially when combined with the people boosting it and the tenor of the buzz it was receiving.

They did not lead me astray.

On its surface, the tale is deceptively straightforward. It's one of cycles, of the ups and downs of being a poor immigrant in America, of how the well-being of so many people is subject to the whims of America's wealthy. It's a tale of status and pride, of racism and antisemitism both overt and implied, of the balance between power and ambition, of the value and danger of vision, of knowing what's worth the fight, even as the outcome remains out of sight. It's a tale of accountability and the lack thereof, of legacy in all directions, of trauma and the deep scars it leaves. It endeavors to be no less than an exploration of the lie put forth as "the American Dream", and it pulls it off with aplomb.

László Tóth (Adrien Brody) is a Hungarian-Jewish architect who emigrated from Budapest to the US after being separated from his wife Erzsébet (Felicity Jones) and daughter Zsófia (Raffey Cassidy) during WWII. His cousin keeps him off the street, giving him a place to sleep and a job selling furniture. This leads him to Harry Lee Van Buren Jr. (Joe Alwyn), who gives him his first American architecture job, as a surprise gift to his father. When the senior Van Buren (Guy Pearce) returns home, he is less than pleased by the highly unorthodox design for a library Tóth dreamed up, leading to a dramatic explosion during which his face turns a shade of red I've only ever seen amongst ripened beats, and results not only in László losing the job, but being thrown out on the street by a peeved Atilla. But the rich are fickle: years later, Van Buren tracks down Tóth, and explains that the design grew on him as his rich friends expressed admiration for it. Leading to Tóth being rehired to meld his grand vision with Van Buren's: a huge, multi-purpose, community center.

By the time this occurs, we're not very far from the intermission, although you could swear the movie just began. Because despite the plot not having covered much ground, all the little details and the performances and nuances within relationships are absolutely captivating and enrapturing, no matter how dark they turn. Corbet builds his arcs such that you're never quite sure where we're headed next, but when we get there, it feels like we could have ended nowhere else. We're by Tóth's side as his life is tugged back and forth, each event completely changing his future outlook at the drop of a hat. Even when things are looking up, you feel the cautious side-eye cast at him by his would-be benefactors as they wrestle with whether to instantly crush his dreams due to lack of trust or his arrogance or simply because of his foreignness. Even as his dreams come to fruition, they never feel secure, a very intentional choice by the filmmakers to hammer home just how precarious it is to uproot your life, especially when traveling to a country as antisemitic as the US in the 40s and 50s, and as xenophobic as America has always been.

The magic trick of this movie is in part the fleet-footed editing that keeps you glued to the screen despite the heavy tone, which allows its power to wash over you and land with an outsized impact. While watching, it doesn't feel like some obviously towering epic, which smacks you in the face with overwhelming emotion and some grand scope. But when it's over, you can barely help but sit back in stunned silence, contemplating the enormity of what you just witnessed. The performances are astounding, breathing real life into these fictional characters. Brody and Pearce turn in a couple of the finest performances of the year (if not their entire storied careers); yet, somehow, Felicity Jones may one up them, leaving an indelible impression despite not showing up until the second half. The sweeping cinematography and gorgeously photographed architecture lend the proceedings excess grandeur, which you'd hope for in a movie named after the popular mid-century movement. And the subject matter is so incredibly resonant, especially when considering the moment in which it happens to land.

For my money, though, the key is the final scene, a bold swing which manages to recontextualize Tóth and all we think we know about him. His architecture is an incredibly personal expression of himself and his values, which we get hints of throughout. Yet it doesn't snap fully into place until the very end, as the world looks back on what he both attempted and accomplished. This mirrors what it's like to watch: not until the final brick is in place does the magnitude of the whole truly make itself felt. Its that scene, married with the propulsion of the story and its many nuances which I've left for you to discover, in which it earns its runtime. You cannot judge this story until its completion: you cannot know how it ends until it is over.