The Brutalist: America the Brutalful

When faced with the choice between building and destroying, humanity leans toward building—but often at the cost of personal destruction. The Brutalist confronts this dichotomy head-on, telling the story of a Hungarian immigrant architect who arrives in post-Holocaust America in search of a better life, only to grapple with the sacrifices that dream demands.

Although the protagonist, Laszlo (Adrien Brody), is fictional, his struggles echo the real-life experiences of countless immigrants. Their stories of hope and hardship underscore the unrelenting complexities of the so-called American dream. It’s no coincidence that Laszlo is a brutalist architect—a profession and style rooted in boldness, structure, and an almost harsh honesty. These themes permeate the film, threading through its visuals, narrative, and deeper metaphors.

From its very opening, the film declares its ambition. The overture sets an epic tone, and we’re immediately thrust into Laszlo’s world as he emerges from the darkness onto a ship’s deck, passing a Statue of Liberty shot at an unsettling angle—tilted, almost upside down. This striking image foreshadows the film’s exploration of twisted ideals and disillusionment. The powerful score amplifies the scene, announcing the grandeur and weight of the story to come.

Comparisons between The Brutalist and There Will Be Blood are inevitable. Both films explore power, its seductive allure, and its devastating cost, while also placing their narratives in pivotal moments of American history. There are even visual parallels, with some shots in The Brutalist echoing iconic frames from Paul Thomas Anderson’s masterpiece. Far from being derivative, this borrowing feels like a deliberate nod to cinematic greatness. Like a PTA film, The Brutalist finds its strengths in its script, performances, and a sweeping score.

One standout choice is the inclusion of an intermission—an unusual but effective touch in contemporary cinema. Much like the "1980" title card in Boogie Nights, it marks a tonal shift, turning hope and optimism on their heads (there's Lady Liberty again).

As a child of immigrants, I found myself deeply connected to Laszlo’s journey. His story resonated with the sacrifices my own family endured to build a life in America. However, my initial anticipation—fueled by the film’s pre-release buzz—was tempered by the final experience. While The Brutalist is undoubtedly a great film, even exceptional in parts, it fell slightly short of the monumental expectations.

That said, the film’s shortcomings don’t diminish its craft. The pacing is steady, and the intermission provides a refreshing narrative pause. Yet, I couldn’t help but notice moments where the metaphors felt heavy-handed, with certain plot points existing solely to hammer home the central themes. This lack of subtlety made it harder to stay immersed in the story.

Another lingering critique is the focus on a European immigrant story, a narrative that has often dominated awards recognition. While I related to Laszlo, I yearned for similar attention to immigrant experiences beyond Europe—stories that are equally deserving of the craft and acclaim afforded to The Brutalist.

Ultimately, The Brutalist is a film about the brutal truths of life in America. The American dream, as portrayed here, is built on the sacrifices of immigrants—the very materials used to construct the country’s ideals are imbued with the suffering of those who believed in them. The film pulls back the curtain on the illusion, revealing a structure that is as disillusioning as it is powerful.

Despite its imperfections, The Brutalist sparks vital conversations about beauty, power, and the cost of ambition. It’s a film that will undoubtedly inspire rich academic analysis and diverse interpretations. That, in itself, is the beauty, power, and enduring structure of cinema.

One last thing I have to note...

My experience of the film was complicated by the broader socio-political context surrounding its release. The marketing and promotional efforts for The Brutalist seemed calculated to elevate the film as a beacon of moral and artistic accomplishment. While the movie itself deserves recognition for its craftsmanship, this push for premature acclaim felt, at times, disingenuous. It’s hard to ignore how the film’s messaging and themes intersect with current global politics, particularly in the way the film’s narrative of resilience and rebuilding could be seen as a subtle effort to frame Israel in a favorable light amidst its ongoing actions in Palestine—actions that many have criticized as genocidal.

This context creates a tension that is hard to shake. While I recognize the film was written years ago, long before current events, its release and the surrounding discourse feel uncomfortably timed. This is not a criticism of Brady and Mona (the writers and directors) or their artistry; rather, it’s an acknowledgment of how external factors—marketing choices, geopolitical realities, and public perception—can color a viewer’s interpretation of a film.