The Brutalist

The Brutalist, directed by Brady Corbet, runs for over three hours—so be prepared. Centred around the story of a fictional architect, the film explores the Jewish immigrant experience post-WWII. Adrien Brody takes the lead as László Tóth, delivering an earnest, if humourless, performance as a once-respected architect.
One strength of the film is its stylish cinematography (Lol Crawley), interspersed with archival footage (filler?) that might be interpreted as a commentary on the American post-war boom. Expect a heavy juxtaposition of narration, action, and subtitles, adding to the film’s general sense of disconnect and disjointedness. The first act is bearable, but it’s all downhill from there.
Let’s chat about Daniel Blumberg’s ham-fisted score, which underscores the visuals with repeated aural thumps—like exclamation marks that don’t match the non-drama on screen. After hours of this, it becomes supremely irritating. (Compared to, say, the brilliant soundscape in The Zone of Interest, where the technique actually works. Were they trying to copy it?)
Felicity Jones plays the architect’s wife, and part of their correspondence forms the narration. Unfortunately, when her character finally appears, she comes across as graceless, sulky, and ungrateful. Jones also struggles with the Hungarian accent—and is that a bad wig? Meanwhile, wealthy American industrialist Harrison Lee Van Buren (Guy Pearce) backs the new immigrant, giving Tóth a significant commission. Again, the casting is dire. Pearce brings as much credibility to the role as a sock puppet. Seen as the eventual villain—despite bankrolling the architect to the tune of today’s millions—Pearce lacks the gravitas any truly great rotter needs.
Tóth, though undoubtedly traumatized by the war, emerges as an egotist, drug addict, and perpetual victim—incapable of fidelity or even gratitude for the opportunities handed to him. (Side note: Part of the film’s marketing includes a ‘real’ brochure showcasing Tóth’s fictional designs for a hilltop community centre. Clearly, the production team thinks this whole shebang is brilliant—this paying filmgoer did not.)
Spanning several decades of Tóth’s apathetic shitshow, the screenplay is linear, with little subtext and not a single memorable line. The absence of humour or wit is notable— a hallmark of immature writing. The audience is asked to invest a considerable amount of time in this film with little emotional payoff. Beyond the myriad inconsistencies and loose ends, the most frustrating aspect is the pointless “suspense” that leads the viewer down a cul-de-sac to nowhere. Most of the characters lack nuance, charm or memorability. And as for the film’s denouement… really?
The only highlight? The arrival of the choc-top ice creams.
My Rating: A bit like IKEA—where the only way out is through every department, and by the end, you wish you’d just stayed home and saved your money.