Entwining cycles of creation and destruction propel titans and survivors in Brady Corbet’s ambitious story of mid-century America. 

Vision, materials and manpower are among the core elements of creation and destruction, in architecture as well as humanity. Dreaming up a thing, amassing the materials needed to construct it, and organizing people to build it up (or to tear it down) could describe both The Brutalist (2024) and its making. 

So much so, that the media halo and hubbub threatens to eclipse the work itself, like many films with some degree of controversy. The Substance (2024) was more active in headlines than viewership. Few experienced or supported Madame Web (2024), including its star, as she shared candidly on her press tour. And the latest entry into this category is Brady Corbet’s American dark epic, The Brutalist, which technically came out in the final days of 2024. Certain podcasts coined the phrase “Brutalist boys” to describe its initial fan base; tales of its near 4-hour run time and an intermission buzzed about online; and more people know about Adrien Brody’s award-winning performance than the broader impacts of the film.

My advice for this curious movie: just watch and take it for what it is, which is ambitious, certainly, but also incredibly inventive, disturbing and deeply empathetic. Even the trailer tells us as much, with its intentionally unusual text treatment, which is mirrored in the film’s credits, designed with Bauhaus flair by designer Sebastian Pardo. Simple typeface scrolls from right to left, eschewing symmetry, consistency and predictability, signaling that this will be quite a different cinematic experience than we are used to.  

The film follows protagonist Lásló Tóth, played to acclaim by Adrien Brody, a Hungarian Jewish refugee who studied at the Bauhous school (the famous German institution designed to integrate all arts and design practices between 1919 and 1933) and later survived the Buchenwald concentration camp (where nearly 60,000 deaths took place before its liberation by the Allies). The camp is a mere 10 km from Weimar where he studied. “Brutalism” is a term coined in the early 50s to describe the minimal, materials-first approach that came out of the Bauhaus school. (“Beton brut” means raw concrete in French.) Having already become a successful brutalist architect in his native Budapest, until being imprisoned at the camp, and then forced to flee to America, leaving behind his wife Erszébet (played with care and range by Felicity Jones) and their ill niece, Zsófia (played by Raffey Cassidy). The name Laszló combines two Hungarian words, meaning “rule” and “glory,” providing clues to elements that slide in and out of his grasp throughout his journey. 

Brody himself is Hungarian (and Polish, for fans of The Pianist from 2002), and his grandparents emigrated to America from Budapest during the film’s exact time period, the mid-50s. Many have commented on the similarities between the story and Brody’s performance in The Pianist, which won him his Academy Award. But his character, and his journey, are quite different here, and whether the themes are darker or not – they are explored in darker, murkier ways by Brody, Corbet and their team.

We begin with an assault on the senses, as we move jarringly behind Lászlo along his forceful trek from Europe to the states and into an immigrant community shrouded in dirt and darkness. The only pleasant tones we hear are the first four notes of the musical theme, scored smartly and creatively by Daniel Blumberg, an experimental musician and visual artist. We will hear this theme for the next 215 minutes, in a range of forms and expressions: whispering and then wailing, through brassy horns and then gentle piano, raising the stakes in some places and providing much needed relief in others. This is an epic score and meets the challenges the film puts to it, from the first scene to the last. Rarely have a few simple major notes delivered such memorable resonance since John William’s famous five tones from Close Encounters of the Third Kind (1977).

I love modern films set in the 50s, but newer examples can sometimes feel like period dress-up; costume dramas with attire and production design that just feels too shiny and new. (See The Imitation Game (2014), Carol (2015) and Brooklyn (2015) ). The Brutalist features no romantic color combinations, luxurious production design or swoony set pieces. The clothes look old. There is mud aplenty. Structures are built with wood, and concrete. This choice, to go with a depressing, washed-out palette helps set it apart from other period dramas. (That, and the crushing human storytelling, of course.) 

The way the film is shot also plays a huge role in the presentation of this character-driven story, and it’s worthwhile to note what’s going on technically. Corbet and cinematographer Lol Crowley (45 Years from 2015, Vox Lux from 2018) shot using VistaVision in 35mm using the fondly outdated film format from the same era of the film.

A quick history of VistaVision:

• TV arrived to most homes in the 1950s and caused a recession in movie going 

• As a response, the studios came up with new ways to shoot and present films, like:

• Cinerama (three strips of 35mm film presented side by side, projected on a curved screen)

• Cinemascope (also multiple film strips, but simpler, and using anamorphic lenses) 

• Paravision (1:66:1 aspect ratio, or 5x3)

• VistaVision (horizontally oriented 35mm strips yielding finer grain projection)

• By thd late 50s, the color stocks with finer great emerged, and most studios stopped using VistaVision

Corbet and Crowly chose to shoot the film using VistaVision, in 35mm, but have it printed in 70mm. And the aspect ratio of 1:66:1 also feels old timey, because it is. The most common feature film ratios are 1.85:1 and 2.40:1, and the most common ratios we’re all familiar with are 4:3 (1.3:1) (think VHS) and the more contemporary 16:9 (1.7:1). But most people who have seen it during its short initial run will end up seeing it in 2D digital, like me. Got it? Great. 

The takeaway is that it was shot using the film format of its era, which helps it feel authentic. The metaphor of the artist searching for his opportunity for expression is open and intentional, and we cringe as we see Lászlo, whom we know from the trailer is capable of incredible things, go to work for his cousin’s average furniture shop. Allessandro Nivola, as his cousin Attilla Miller, is always a workhorse and a smart contributor to a cast, and can also shine as a lead, as we saw in the arresting The Many Saints of Newark (2021). We only get a little of him here, but he serves as a warm enough welcome both for Lászlo, who has no prospects, and us, following the daunting intro. 

A warning of troubles to come is captured in a brief but telling exchange between the cousins. Attila’s furniture company is called “Miller & Sons.” 

• Lászlo: “Who’s Miller?”

• Attila: (smiles) “It’s me.” 

• Lászlo replies, “No, you are Molnar.” 

• Attila: (pause) “Not anymore.” 

The warmth of the reunion with Attila after Lászlo’s initial trauma soon dissipates, as we are shown how the bonds of family shore up against the political climate. 

But just before, Attila enlists Lászlo’s help in a commission for the family of mercurial industrialist Harrison Van Buren, played with both relish and constriction by a svelte and coiffed Guy Pearce. His son, Harry (Joe Alwyn, out of his depth in the midst of tested masters, but game) hires the cousins to renovate his father’s library in their stately mansion outside Philadlephia as a surprise while he is away. And here is where we first see our brutalist have an opportunity to create something of his own in America. 

Lászlo reminds me of a ghost (from all the ghosts I’ve met, apparently) – lingering on the borders of conversations of which he’s reluctantly a part; sitting or standing in a veil of smoke from constant cigarettes; hunched, weary, and worn. He’s constantly being woken up, as if his only peace is sleep, and every waking is hour filled with new threats and pressures. His speech is gruff, his accent thick, and he is not a salesman; he speaks bluntly and directly. Which is why his transformation of the Van Buren library, the first we see of his vision and materials – is so transcendent; to describe it would be a spoiler. But it’s a rare moment of light and relief in a tale founded on struggle and survival, isolation and grief. 

The design wins over the blustery Van Buren, embodied by Pearce in a career performance, who’s shown us he continues to be capable of transformations and experimentations. His hair and mustache are cropped flawlessly around his sharp features, and he cuts a classic figure of mid-century American industrialism, having greatly profited off of the very war that destroyed Lászlo’s life in Budapest. Other casting directors might have chosen a stockier actor, a towering figure (Pearce is shorter than Brody), which is a testament to his range and inventiveness that he inhabits this tycoon so thoroughly. He speaks as if writing in a higher style, delivering lines like saying he wants to “nurture the defining talent of our epoch.” One is reminded of Tom Wolfe’s description of “masters of the universe” – those men who believed they held the keys to civilization. 

He is so impressed by Lászlo’s work, he hires him away from his current job (shoveling coal) to build a community center dedicated to his recently deceased mother. And he is not out of tune to Lászlo’s plight, and Jewishness, telling him things may likely improve “since FDR is gone.” Scholars have studied FDR’s position on Jews, including citing conversations he had with world leaders, like one with Churchill in which he allegedly said the best way to “settle the Jewish question” being to “to spread the Jews thin all over the world” so as to avoid too many in one place. There was a US quota for Jewish immigration during the Holocaust – a mere 26,000 people, which was less than 25% met, due to governmental concern over Jews being spies for Hitler. (Sure.) This becomes the narrative heart of the film: that the destruction of an entire people on one continent leads to their attempted resurrection on another, with little to no vision, materials or people organization available to them. 

Meanwhile, Corbet’s doing the same thing: attempting to conjure up am ambitious story out of nothing. Initially an actor, with credits including Funny Games (2007) and Thirteen (2013), but more memorably in the hauntingly excellent Mysterious Skin (2004), Corbet worked on the film for 7 years. During his acceptance speech for Best Picture - Drama Picture at the recent Golden Globes, he said, “films don’t exist without the filmmakers.” We hear the same themes from Lászlo, as he is forced to work with Van Buren’s cadre of exisitng partners, including small town architect Jim Simpson (played by Michael Epp) who insists on cutting costs. In what may be the most hilarious line in an otherwise comedy-light four hour epic, Lászlo asks Simpson what he’s worked on. Simpson cites a shopping mall, and a “hotel in Connecticut.” Lászlo pauses, and withers: “Everything that is ugly, cruel, stupid — but ... ugly — is your fault.” He’s here to build new buildings. Not to make friends. 

As with the film’s production process, the Van Buren community center faces starts and stops, highlights and disappointments. Through Van Buren’s network, Lászlo’s wife Erszébet is able to join him in the second act, and in comes Felicity Jones with a deeper and richer role than she’s ever been granted. Primarily confined to a wheelchair, she and their niece Zsófia (played quietly but suitably by Raffey Cassidey, from Vox Lux) arrive in the second act, and help flesh out the plight of mid-century European immigrants, and the occasional support, condescension and predation they face when they arrive.  

Lászlo is also joined by Gordon, a new friend and fellow immigrant he meets and enlists as a partner, played with pitch tenderness by Isaach De Bankolé. He and his son are also trying to survive in a world in which the odds and realities are against them. He is also Lászlo’s partner in drug use, introduced in a sequence that could be called “jazz and heroin.” Addiction takes many forms, and the film treats this example with empathy, showing how Lászlo uses it for relief from the crushing and lasting horrors and disapoinements that descend on his life, repeatedly, like a flock of buzzards, gliding with patience and inevitability over his tattered life. 

With his European life destroyed, we see new potential created for Lászlo – and then taken away. We see Erszébet attempt to resurrect their connection, while also creating a career of her own. We are invited into the Van Buren mansion, warm with holiday decorations and the clinking of glasses, and in a later scene, empty and cold, with only the sound of clocks echoing across wood and marble. We travel to Italy, to the Carrara marble quarries, to experience the grandeur and austerity of Italian marble, which serves as both material for the restarted community center, as well as a labyrinth of tunnels that feel eerily like a prison.   

And all along the way, Blumberg score guides us, provokes and envelops us, the core theme being deconstructed and then reassembled, like Van Buren’s library. Something happens in the second act that changes the picture – it won’t be spoiled here, but it literalizes what is happening in a key relationship of the film. I’d never considered this before, that this would be included in the myriad ways immigrants are tested. But – of course it is. Of course we search for every possible way to create and destroy our humanity. All the vision and materials in the world are no match for the obsession of mankind to subjugate one another.  

In 1948, the US government passed the Displaced Persons Act, easing immigration for Holocaust survivors, around 140,000 of which came to America between then and 1952. Many European Jews chose Israel, a critical piece of history the film does not ignore. 

A brief and very incomplete example of Hungarian Jews who helped make Hollywood what it is would include:  

• Max Steiner (Austrian-Hungarian, Jewish)

• George Cukor (Hungarian, Jewish)

• Michael Curtiz (Hungarian, Jewish)

• Emeric Pressburger (Hungarian, Jewish)

• Peter Lorre (Hungarian, Jewish)

• Hedy Lamar (Hungarian, Jewish)

• Zsa Zsa Gabor (Hungarian, Jewish, later Catholic)

• Harry Houdini (Hungarian, Jewish)

• Leslie Howard (Hungarian, Jewish)

• Adrien Brody (Hungarian, Jewish)

Hungary was among the last countries the Nazis invaded, not arriving until 1944, a mere year before the war’s end. But it was time enough to send 440,000 Hungarian Jews (about half the country’s Jewish population) to their deaths. Lászlo’s story is the story of America – the America that helped liberate Europe, just in time for few, and too late for many. It is a reminder of the many kinds of immigrants there are, how brutal their plight is, and how most possess a simple vision based on the destruction of their past life: to create a new one.