THE BRUTALIST: Adrien Brody's monumental comeback

For many months, director Brady Corbet's third movie was on everyone's lips, a monumental American epic that many described as "the cinematographic event of the year." Even though I didn't jump on the bandwagon at the time, or rather wasn't on board—as a nod to our protagonist's initial arrival in American lands—the first minutes filled me with enthusiasm in a way I hadn't experienced for a long time. I felt I was witnessing something on the big screen much greater than I had imagined. A perfect combination of visuals and sounds exuding greatness and originality in all its glory, something typical of the best North American portrayals found in the seventh art like, for example, There Will Be Blood or Citizen Kane. But, as we know, there are only a few movies perfect from beginning to end and, while I didn't end up feeling that The Brutalist was one of them, it's quite an achievement during mediocre times.

The story, both direct and complex, follows László Tóth, a Hungarian-Jewish architect that redefined some of the most relevant infrastructures of his native Budapest before World War II. Some even consider him an actual revolutionary in the art of construction. But upon arrival in North America, he faces the enormous difficulty of committing to his ideals without losing his mind on the way. Let's say we are in front of a character study with hints of social drama and epic cinema.

Where do I start? In this case, it's a tough question, but I will try to answer it without getting too tangled. The latest from the mind behind Vox Lux has the peculiar charm of telling a familiar story—the story of the United States immigrants—but in a way that's always faithful to its fashion, without lying to itself nor wanting to participate in unnecessary debates. For this same reason, I'm also not going to lie: I momentarily felt I was witnessing a weird audiovisual experiment but also, at times, everything flowed with such naturality that the sense of "control" seemed to vanish. One way or another, the result ends up being both crushing and overwhelming. Corbet alters all spaces within the frame to give us an experience that mixes documentary and surrealism, magic and realism, and blurs the imaginary line between the most intimate drama and epic cinema. It's an extremely risky decision, but it is undoubtedly worth every second.

Is there a "brutalist" as such in the movie or is it just a symbolic expression of its message? The word refers to a type of architecture that peaked in the late 50s, served as the pillar of European reconstruction in times of despair and uncertainty after war horrors and was characterized by minimalism, functionality and "unaesthetic" features, according to established standards. But who defines these standards? László Tóth's figure emerges with brutalism before the question, trying to redefine what it means to immigrate. He's the heart, fever, pain, agony and resignation, but he's also genuine happiness, respect and condescension. He's the one who defines how things are done, as an answer in the form of a counterattack.

Passion and admiration are shown by Brody to embody his character, who is simultaneously easy and hard to empathize with. László takes all the necessary precautions to decently rebuild his life in the United States, but as soon as he gets off the ship, he wastes the little money he has on sleeping with a woman. That's the first real glimpse we get of the character, who we practically don't know. He's a person screaming for a breath of life, something to prevent him from perishing among the crowd. His cousin Attila (played by Alessandro Nivola), who lives in Philadelphia and has a furniture store with his standardized North American wife, is László's counterpart. His urge to belong to his new home's customs is stronger than the urge to take a risk for what was once his land. Considering this mentality, László is well-received at the beginning, but some missteps start to crack his stand.

By chance, the protagonist gets a job to redesign a library in a huge mansion, but what starts as his career reawakening ends up being the start of an American nightmare. We are not only shown the dark side of immigration, but the director also establishes a metanarrative connection between the process of telling a story of this caliber and the protagonist's odyssey to finish a dreamy construction for a millionaire shouldering all the responsibility. Harrison Lee Van Buren (played by an exceptional Guy Pearce) is a man who, while he first appears on screen with anger and rejection, also disappears and returns several years later to show a calmer side. His selfishness disguised in kindness is proof of how the most despicable minds can devise really specific strategies to deceive others to aberrant levels.

This is what happens during the first 100 minutes out of The Brutalist's 214-minute duration. Corbet, in an attempt to honor the innovations of the 60s, added a 15-minute intermezzo—with a countdown—knowing the audience's viewing habits while also using it as a neccesary narrative tool. The film's second part starts with Erzsébet's arrival to Philadelphia; she's László's wife from whom we had only heard her voice until now. But here's where the movie errs. It wants to be exciting with an exaggerated effort to pull us into the romance when we are experiencing confusion and duality, particularly regarding this talented architect's decisions.

Is this the beginning of a new era in cinema? I dare to assert that, contrary to what the majority thinks, we need more films like this one. I'm crying out for them… and maybe many others are too. If there's something Corbet's new work has taught me—and reconfirmed—it's that taking risks can be the best thing that's happening to modern cinema at this time.

Posted on FEBRUARY 10, 2024, 16:02 PM | UTC-GMT -3

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