The Brutalist Review

Watching any film in the post-Academy Awards glow changes your perspective. Even if it is just a slight, subtle change of the senses, of the vigour and honours handed to the project, it creates a bravado. An expectation is then set, a suggestion that it should live up to expectations set by a voting pool we will never converse with about The Brutalist. Such is life. If we are guided by the suggestion and interpretation of others, as László Toth did in constructing what he perceived as a masterpiece without compromise, then we would be foolish. The Brutalist is a strong film. An interesting dramatic piece which bases itself in the implications of servitude for others in some vein or honorary hope of keeping your heritage alive. Adrien Brody and Guy Pearce may lead the narrative charge, but the perspective, the struggle, is found in the supporting cast.  

Felicity Jones and Raffey Cassidy are crucial. They are not just foliage for Brody, his Best Actor win for his work as Toth is understandable, if a little inevitable. He guides the first third of the film but then, once the reunion between Toth and Erzsébet Toth (Jones) is complete, the tone stays the same. Brady Corbet maintains the lust and longing which feels so oppressive, so humiliating at times for both László and Erzsébet, because even together they are isolated. It is Cassidy who tees up that final remark, that lingering sense of feeling out of place, ostracised in a place you now call home. The Brutalist does well to sidestep a few larger troubles and comes through with an observation on American culture, on the bravado which comes in honouring past generations. To see it unfold so beautifully is not just reliant on the structure Toth slaves over, but the incredible variance Corbet gives it and the journey.  

Where some implications and lines may feel like inevitable build to an unfulfilling, foreshadowing sense, it is the conviction Pearce gives it in his role as Harrison Lee Van Buren which makes it worth the conclusion, even if it, the eruption of an end, is lined up far too perfectly. Comments on generational wealth, on the expectation of father and son, comes across well with Pearce and Joe Alwyn, but the focus never drifts too far from Brody and the intelligence Corbet shows in framing, in using the natural world Toth takes from to build these structures as a metaphor for the man in charge of construction. A hollow marble quarry feels like a fitting image to linger on. Corbet has a wonderful sense of knowing when it lingers that second too long, that moment where it becomes uncomfortable to stare. The Brutalist is full of moments which cause discomfort, but not in the familiar sense.  

Corbet has crafted a film of split decisions. Where the fate of his characters may be unfulfilled, so too is the creative process he reflects in Toth and Van Buren. If The Brutalist feels inconclusive on its most important topics, then it is to be left that way out of choice. All of it is poised on the structural design, the integrity of concrete and marble, no match for pure evil, for dishonest intent. Though it is alluded to in the first half and shown clearly afterwards, it still feels like some truth is missing. It would be too flippant to consider The Brutalist a film of moments showcasing how unfair life can be, but it shows this above all. Life as an act of preservation, as a display of how clean-cut it was, is no life at all. Legacy shows nothing but an act of self-preservation, a prevailing desire in modern times. But why go through the effort, the hassle of it all, when the volatility of life, the wild side of it, is left unseen? The Brutalist may not have the answer, but it certainly asks the question.