It’s Brutalist Out Here

Or whatever. I think that’s an Olivia Rodrigo song but am not sure because I’m 26 years old. Speaking of things I’m not sure of… The Brutalist!

I was really looking forward to this one. It’s true, I enjoy movies, and perhaps I enjoy them a bit more than the average person does. When I say I was excited for The Brutalist, you have to understand I truly mean it. I wanted to leave this thing punching my fist in the air and be so giddy I’d have trouble falling asleep that night.

The Brutalist sets the stage for a brilliant first half with a brilliant opening. It’s nothing ground-breaking, it’s just so on the nose, and there’s no world in which it’s too much. The churning of waves, the creaking of the boat, and the shouts from above deck give way to our protagonist, László Tóth. My first attempt at that sentence necessitated a single adjective to describe him, and I restructured the whole thing so I could avoid having to choose just one. Words like weary, downtrodden, traumatized, etc., don’t do justice to the state László is in when we first meet him. It’s hard to summarily and instantly capture a character, but Adrien Brody effortlessly achieves the internal desolation of László that couples with that ol’ indomitable human spirit. 

László doesn’t have a thousand-yard stare, he comes out of the darkness below deck to laugh and cheer their arrival in America. The Statue of Liberty jolts into view, upside down as an omen of what’s to come. It’s memorable imagery and is thematically explicit. Right then and there, I should’ve taken the hint that The Brutalist would not be the subtle three and a half hour ride I was anticipating. That’s where I can start. This movie is about the immigrant experience in America, and I believe Brady Corbet has said as much. On a superficial level, it’s about the difficulties of assimilation, but I almost want to believe that this film dares to purport an anti-assimilation message. Even worse, perhaps, it may be a warning not to bother.

Back to the start. László is off the boat. He’s seen the Statue of Liberty, he’s been given a bus ticket to go wherever he needs to, and after a brief stop I’ll discuss a bit later, he’s off to Pennsylvania (was it Pittsburgh or Philadelphia?) where he knows his cousin resides and he has a place to stay.  László is given a meager job below both his pay grade and skill level, and a scant room in the commercial space; he has to exit the building and walk some ways to even use the bathroom.  László is accepting of all this, and I’d say understandably so. He nods and is thankful, his prior suffering so great that this paltry existence is (seemingly easily) tolerable. There begins the continuous crucifixion of László. Don’t get me wrong—I’m not saying this is all an exact Christ metaphor. It’s really not. However, when I think of what László endures over the course of this film, how he hardly even grits his teeth or makes any personal acknowledgement of the constant abuse leveled at him and this situation, I can’t help but think of Jesus on his way to Calvary. László might as well have had a crown of thorns, been stripped nearly naked, and been carrying his own cross. 

He suffers the slings and arrows of his continued outrageous fortune, but he never takes up arms against them. There is no opposition, only submission to hardship and acceptance of his suffering and mistreatment. László performs his menial labor for his cousin, he lets the Van Burens hurl insults at him and his work and throw them out—I believe he even apologizes to his cousin when the job goes awry. His cousin who, by the way, has taken on an Americanized name, a Christian wife, and Catholicism, leaving his Judaism and Hungarian identity behind. The couple even, in all of their generosity, offers László a connection with a doctor who could fix his nose. It’s undeniably another Upside-Down-Statue-of-Liberty moment (UDSOLM).

Then, you know, they throw him out. A drunken night wherein László is almost happy, dancing too close with his cousin’s wife, enjoying drink and music, is thrown back in his face when the finances sour. László’s cousin has done everything “right": converted, changed his name, lost his accent, and bent the knee for the red-blooded American businessman he serves. László has not, America punishes him for it, and he just takes it. He moves to a charity boarding house operated by a church and shovels coal. He does hard labor and lives in the poorhouse where they remind him he needs to attend mass, all without resisting too much or appearing too bitter. He’s almost literally taking his lumps (of coal, that is). 

Of course, László has his crutches. He begins to abuse heroin as he continues to reject Christianity (as understood by the Americans, in reality he just doesn’t let go of Judaism) and harbor affection for modernist architecture. I thought László was a bit of a pervert, too, which isn’t exactly fair of me. The brothel expedition and the cozying up to the cousin’s wife led me to that conclusion, and it was at that point I was convinced The Brutalist was making a radical, subversive stance. At some point (I can’t remember the exact sequence of events), as László sinks deeper into heroin addiction, he goes to see a porn movie, so I do feel further justified in that claim. As someone who still uses Twitter, I am often confronted by the opinions of RETVRN types—those Nazi, neoconservative fascists who only think they believe in Classicism and associate modernism with “Jewish degeneracy” and perversion. Wow, I thought, this movie is making the bold statement of “yes it is, so what?” And I loved that. That’s the version of The Brutalist I fell for, but not the direction the film actually took. I think if Brady Corbet made that movie I’d have to build a shrine to him in my closet.

Let’s return to what’s actually in the movie. László is saved from his wretched existence by Harrison Lee Van Buren, who has researched László, learned of his accomplishments, and become embarrassed by his family’s treatment of him. He offers him both a place to stay and a monumental project, a chance to work at the same professional level he did before the Shoah. On its face, it’s a kind gesture, but without other stable options and by offering him room and board, László is very much reliant on and dependent on the Van Burens, leaving him vulnerable.

I have to talk about the Van Burens, both Harrison Lee and Harry (we’re just going to skip over the daughter, she doesn’t really matter). Funnily enough (or not funnily at all), I think the first movie I remember seeing Joe Alwyn in was Boy Erased. I recall he plays a golden boy-esque character, a roommate of the protagonist, who he rapes. Um, I guess that’s the funny part (not funny like haha, funny like ironic, okay?) because it’s heavily implied that Harry sexually assaults Zsófia. Our protagonist is not the only one vulnerable to abuse—it’s also open season on his family. Like László, Zsófia can be as silent and obedient as she wants, it doesn’t matter because they are less than the Van Burens and theirs to do with what they will.

There’s a fine line between being beholden to and being dominated by someone. The Van Burens mostly maintain the balance (minus the implication of the scene with Harry and Zsófia, which as it turns out is partially foreshadowing), until a shocking scene in the second half of the film. László’s heroin abuse has heightened, but his attitude is trending towards upstart. He’s clashing with Van Buren’s project manager and being a lot more outspoken than he is apparently entitled to (by his WASP overlords). On their trip to Italy, he is happy and a true professional in his element, and we get a glimpse of what might be his former self restored. Van Buren watches him flirt with a woman, dancing closely with her, before he wanders off to shoot up. I have to imagine this isn’t the first time Van Buren realizes he’s been abusing drugs, but the state he finds László in triggers something in him. I don’t think it’s just seeing László collapsed in a dirty alley, I think it’s also his apparent success and his near happiness in other facets of his life that drives him to rape him. It’s shocking, and though Van Buren’s sexual orientation is mostly open to interpretation, I understood this crime as sexless—a violent act of dominion. Even if he’s some degree of gay (we know he is at least intellectually enamored with László, and we never see him with a female love interest), he’s making more of a property claim than a romantic one. It’s the ultimate subjugation.

I now turn to the actual Margaret Lee Van Buren Center for Creation and Activity and the parable Harrison Lee tells about his mother. The Center, the project at the core of the film, is meant to be a building containing a library, a gymnasium, and a chapel. The sections cover mind, body, and soul, which is simple enough. It’s a monumental structure built atop a hill, and László’s affinity for concrete brutalism makes it a colossal and conspicuous beast. Van Buren’s story about his mother, besides being a parable of American struggle, is a tale of wherewithal that is not unlike László’s torturously unfair journey. I think there’s something to be said about the fact that the center is named after Van Buren’s mother, a woman who persevered through prejudice and injustice, and constructed by László, a man enduring his own unfair struggles. Van Buren might see some of his mother in László, which I think sprinkles in a nice little incestuous, psychosexual element to the whole thing.

This building almost physically topples and metaphorically consumes Van Buren. It nearly bankrupts him after the train incident, but it becomes so much more than a plot device at the end of the film. After the scene in which Erzsébet ruins dinner and announces to the party and to Van Buren’s face that he is a rapist, she is forcibly removed, providing a chaotic distraction as Van Buren disappears into the night. We are with Harry as he searches for his father; they start in the house and eventually end up at the Margaret Lee Van Buren Center for Creation and Activity, a hulking structure that feels so cold on the inside. That makes sense, as it’s essentially been a channel for László’s immense pain. Pain that, as the search party hunts for Van Buren within it, seems to have consumed him. Regardless of whether or not I’m right about that, László’s towering creation will literally outlive Van Buren. His legacy undoubtedly dominates Harrison Lee Van Buren’s, too.

While I don’t think it adds any particularly special complexity, I feel I must address sex in The Brutalist. I see it adding yet another dimension to László’s thorough dehumanization—mostly, his desire to have it as he once did as well as the way it’s used against him in that violating way. A few distinct scenes (three of which I would also describe as pivotal) make László’s sexuality relevant to any analysis of the film. They are mostly meaningfully congruent, with one that stands out to me as slightly out of line, but still coherent. After the UDSOLM, sex is introduced almost immediately. László is fresh off the boat, and he and the boat buddy he is shown embracing head to a brothel. Okay, I’m following. I don’t mean to be too glib, but I think people who just survived one of history’s greatest crimes are entitled to getting their rocks off. I get the impulse, I think it’s probably realistic—there’s a reason why prostitutes are extra popular in port cities, anyway. The scene itself is the first time László’s sexuality is relevant, and it establishes what I presumed to be impotence issues. We see his mind clearly elsewhere and a lack of interest, something I assumed was a problem that lay somewhere between loyalty to his wife and a degree of physical impotence. He isn’t interested when he is offered a boy by the brothel madam. I immediately understood it as a dimension of his trauma.

As is aforementioned, László makes an excursion to a porno. Putting my earlier thematic reading aside, I figured this was a desperate grasp by him to reclaim his sexuality. This is the sticky scene, the one I don’t quite get. I guess I do get it, but only if I’m totally right in this reading. Obviously, I think I am. Sexuality is clearly important to László—if I recall correctly, his letters to Erzsébet are a bit sensual. I understand these attempts as him trying to salvage his old self. Erzsébet herself is distressed when they reunite; she is concerned he will no longer be attracted to her, a concern that somewhat follows to their bedroom. I seem to remember her having to tell him he doesn’t have to be gentle—I understood this as another function of his impotence. What’s unsaid in their relationship makes their reunion incongruous. Erzsébet thinks he is no longer attracted to her because of her condition, which, again, is a result of her own internment, while László has simply been so traumatized that his typical sexuality has been robbed of him.

Again, and I hope I’m not boring you, dear reader, with my retreading, I have to discuss the rape scenes. Zsófia’s is merely implied, while László’s comes with a claim that he has brought his fate upon himself. It’s classic victim-blaming, but Van Buren means so much more. It assigns László the weight of the world, and makes his and the Jewish identity in its entirely one that invites its own victimization. Quite the assertion in the immediate wake of the Holocaust. This Van Buren guy—not a very nice person! I really don’t know what more there is to say about this. When you’ve been stripped of your sexuality, the only worse thing that could happen in the realm of sex is rape. Like I said, UDSOLM, this movie isn’t interested in being subtle.

László’s issues with intimacy with his wife are seemingly settled in another crucial scene—one in which I can’t even remember whether or not they even have sex. You can keep in mind that I thought they did, hence why I am discussing it in this section, but it’s not even as important as the emotional divide that they bridge. Of course, if this all happens in conjunction with satisfying physical intimacy, I think it adds another layer of meaning. It means Erzsébet and László are reclaiming another dimension of agency and what they shared in their old life—whatever László was grasping for when he went to the brothel or the porno, he has finally regained. He simultaneously divulges the secrets of his heroin addiction and his assault, sharing his burdens with his wife and empowering them both. They make their decision to emigrate again, Erzsébet rises from her chair to confront the Van Burens, and we don’t see László again until the epilogue, during which he is receiving veneration for his life’s work.

Before the AI controversy, the hottest topic surrounding The Brutalist was the film’s take on Zionism. I’ve done a bit of pondering on this. For a good portion of my watch, I thought the issue was overwrought. I didn’t see the way the film handled the subject as anything more than historical depiction—a radio announcement of the 1947 establishment of Israel, Jewish survivors discussing the possibility of life there, etc., would have all just been facts of life. Regardless of personal opinion, I thought their inclusion was realistic and impartial enough. Even when the main characters are weighing a move to Israel—the niece Zsófia and her new husband are already set on it, Erzsébet and László’s take seems appropriate. Zsófia, mute for the entirety of the film until then, is able to speak and take part in the discussion.

Now, we return to László and Israel. Let me be clear, I think the ending sucked, but I do find one strain of thought about it compelling—so much so that I do think it almost works. Additionally, I think this argument also aligns with those who read the film as anti-Zionist. This idea I first read on Twitter—and I apologize for not remembering whose it was so I could at least link it (and especially because I’m starting to see more and more posts along these lines)—was that this scene, wherein Zsófia is presenting an award and giving a speech at an event honoring her uncle who sits silently, perhaps himself now able to speak, old and in a wheelchair, was meant to be read as an Israeli speaking for a voiceless Holocaust survivor. You could thus interpret the epilogue á la The Holocaust Industry, a bold statement, though one thoroughly masked in context. If Zsófia wasn’t a survivor herself, I’d almost buy this, and that would maybe be a provocative ending to the film. However, I have to accept the reality—the movie is just not that subversive. 

If we take a step back from this reading and relax it by a degree, it can at least be understood as someone again putting words in the mouth of a Holocaust survivor or, if we take another step back from the direct text, taking agency away from an immigrant artist. Except, again, Zsófia is one herself (not an artist, as far as we know, but a survivor), and her claims about the community center and what it represents are likely true. We are shown that László is very particular about the structural proportions while it is under design and construction, so her reading of his work is very likely intentional when you consider how fussy he is about the exact numbers. The crux is whether or not her “it’s not about the journey, but the destination” claim is something László (and us, the audience) should agree with. 

But I can’t really leave it at that. I can’t gloss over the role that Israel plays in the final hour of the film. When your film is a tale about the difficulties of assimilation (or a screed against not even bothering), where your characters end up living and thriving is incontrovertibly important. Again, you can interpret the fact that they end up as Israeli citizens as a fact of the time as I initially did, but I read the film as taking it a bit further than that. The fact that László is never given any respect in America, and, as far as we know with the time jump, it is only after becoming Israeli that he achieves renown for his designs, has to have some significance. I’m really not sure if the event being held in Venice means anything, either, as it seems it’s based on a real biennale held there, but it could’ve just as easily been something honoring László in the U.S. They could’ve staged it at the community center, but I could easily see a reading of this as another way László was rejected by America (but honored by the international architectural community). 

There’s also something in the way the decision to make Aliyah affects the family physically, and how it heals their psychological and more corporeal traumatic wounds. I understand Zsófia’s muteness as a function of what she’s been through, and I’m not sure it’s an uncommon response to something so awful. If we were discussing a horror movie, I’d say it was a bit trope-y. We miss the exact moment she regains her voice, sometime when she meets her husband or before, but we discover she had healed in this aspect during the same conversation they announce their move to Israel.

As previously stated, László’s impotence as a result of his ordeal. As previously discussed, the night he gives Erzébet his heroin and discloses his rape by Van Buren, their intimate problems are resolved. If I recall correctly, this is also the point at which they decide to leave for Israel. That HAS to mean something. Moreso, Erzsébet is also empowered to briefly overcome her osteoporosis, entering the Van Burens using a walker (after using a wheelchair for the entire film) and (again, if I remember correctly) taking a few independent steps to make her accusation. How can I overlook the association of characters, talking, fucking, and walking again with making Aliyah? The anti-assimilation message of the film becomes so much richer with this context—it’s not just that these Holocaust survivors are harmed by America (their dehumanization is perpetuated), they are actively healed by moving to Israel! Zsófia talks, László physical and emotional troubles with his wife are soothed, and Erzsébet is literally able to walk again! With all that under consideration, how could I not read this film as Zionist? Coupled with the utter rejection of László’s identity, America had only broadened their physical pain (and abuse, if we recall Zsófia’s assault by Harry). From what we know, Israel heals them! 

I think my general criticism of the film is that it’s not very well thought out. If I consider the title, The Brutalist, my head starts spinning. Why did he have to be a brutalist architect? It fits the time period, I guess, but the actual function of brutalism (the combination of the need to rebuild rapidly and cheap concrete) is skirted over—László’s project for the Van Burens has nothing to do with efficacy. Brutalism is among the purest movements of function over form (personally, I can’t say it’s without aesthetic appeal as well), but László might as well have been designing a Rococo community center for how little brutalist tenets align with the film thematically. Sure, the character of László is an amalgamation of a handful of very historically real, Jewish, and Hungarian emigres who worked as celebrated brutalist architects, and I wouldn’t have a problem with the architectural movement mismatch if this whole thing wasn’t called The Brutalist when brutalism seems more coincidental than anything else when it comes to the story being told. It has crossed my mind that the word brutal is what Corbet and Fastvold latched onto when fleshing out their idea about the American immigrant experience. Bouncing ideas off of Thomas on the ride home, I threw a bunch of theories and thoughts out at him. At one point, he said (and I’m paraphrasing, dearest Thomas), “You’re thinking more about this than [the filmmakers].” 

I fear that’s true. For a movie I decry as unsubtle, I’ve had to muddle through a lot of it and make a lot of guesses. Is that contradictory? I actually don’t think so. I think the film is solely about the immigrant experience in America and how bad it is. America takes in new meat to chew up and spit out, migrant labor and ideas are fodder for the capitalist WASP machine, and they don’t actually get the American dream of social mobility and suburbia in any real sense. You see, the Statue of Liberty might as well be upside down! Overall, the script is the film’s weakest link. The compelling set up of the first half and the escalation in the second half are both blown to pieces by the final two segments of the film. An ambiguous ending is one thing and something I generally like, but I’d argue it has to be earned. I don’t think The Brutalist earns anything more than “America’s treats immigrants badly and the American dream is a fraud,” even though in its last hour it’s desperately grasping for something more. I spent a good amount of time writing this post, and I’m not sure what I got out of it. I don’t think I really deepened my understanding of the film, but I think I was mostly able to sort out my thoughts on a few scenes. I didn’t end up drawing any new conclusions or finding more depth in my analysis, so I basically ended up in the same place. I don’t want to say this piece is substanceless, but it certainly trends in that direction. If we consider journey vs. destination vis-à-vis this post, I don’t know that I care for either.

My final note is that I just can’t bend over backwards to justify The Brutalist being exceptional, and that breaks my heart a little bit when I think about 75% of this film. Most of it is gorgeous, one specific frame stands out in my mind as being one where the CGI fails, but the 35mm conversion to 70mm via VistaVision was a real success (and I do truly hope the legacy of this film lives on long enough that I can brag I saw it in 70mm in a packed theater). Adrien Brody delivers a sublime performance, complemented by strong turns from Guy Pearce and Joe Alwyn. I don’t know, I think you can tell Alwyn has to cover his own rent now; he really is good in this. I think everyone involved should pat themselves on the back, and I hope I get to see 10 more three and a half hour epics from Brady Corbet—as long as he finds a screenwriter.