Item: The Brutalist
Rating: 7
Author: Eli Brau

Throughout December, expect to see many outlets anoint Brady Corbet’s The Brutalist as the best film of 2024. It’s epic. It’s wildly accomplished. And it knows it. The movie’s operatic opening crescendos into a visually striking image of the Statue of Liberty flipped upside down—an arresting symbol that mirrors the film’s poster. It’s the kind of bold, declarative start that announces a filmmaker fully in command of their craft.

The Brutalist movie (2024) — The Brutalist

What follows is a sprawling 215 minutes packed with singular, idiosyncratic themes and plot threads that imbue The Brutalist with a clear sense of self-importance. At its center is Adrien Brody, delivering a defining performance as László Tóth, a Hungarian-Jewish architect. The story begins as László emigrates to America after surviving the Holocaust. Though he’s escaped the horrors of war, he remains painfully separated from his wife Erzsébet (Felicity Jones) and niece Zsófia (Raffey Cassidy), who are stranded overseas as he struggles to pave a path for their reunification.

The American Dream feels within reach for László, whose architectural brilliance earned him recognition in pre-war Budapest. He assumes his skills and reputation will translate seamlessly to his new life in the United States. Yet, reality proves far harsher. The only consistent work he can find is helping his cousin Attila (Alessandro Nivola) at a modest furniture store. Years slip by with little progress, and the dream of upward mobility he once held dissolves into frustration and stagnation.

That is, until László crosses paths with a wealthy figure from his past. Guy Pearce plays Harrison Lee Van Buren, a flamboyantly rich industrialist who once commissioned László to renovate his library. Harrison, drawn to László’s vision and talent, offers him an opportunity to reignite his career. To László, this partnership feels like the lifeline he’s been waiting for—an authentic validation of his abilities, backed by Harrison’s seemingly boundless resources.

Over the next three hours, The Brutalist meticulously unravels the partnership between László and Harrison, dissecting their relationship through themes of ego, power, and class. Brady Corbet subtly yet effectively pits Brody’s László against Pearce’s Harrison, as the dynamics of their bond become increasingly fraught. For Harrison, the relationship is not just about mentorship or collaboration—it’s about possession. He views László as a discovery, a gem to parade before his wealthy circle to affirm his status as a tastemaker.

The insidious nature of Harrison’s power manifests in microaggressions that Corbet weaves with precision throughout the narrative. These moments serve to expose Harrison’s true intentions and the tenuous foundations of László’s newfound stability. As the tension mounts, it becomes clear that the world László is trying to construct for himself—a life of dignity and independence—is far more fragile than he ever anticipated. Corbet’s slow-burn approach allows the characters’ motivations and conflicts to simmer, creating an atmosphere of quiet yet unrelenting dread.

Harrison commissions László for a grand undertaking: a sprawling community center in honor of his late mother. The ambitious project is designed to house a library, theater, gym, and chapel, with László’s vision reflecting the raw, monumental aesthetic that gives the film its name—The Brutalist. The original design, marked by its imposing concrete framework, is deeply personal to László, embodying his ideals and creative spirit. However, as developers and Harrison’s wealthy peers begin to weigh in, the project starts to lose its identity, becoming less a singular artistic vision and more a corporate-managed endeavor.

Through this fraught process, Harrison’s true nature comes to light. Guy Pearce delivers a powerhouse performance as the volatile industrialist, channeling a visceral, nearly unhinged energy reminiscent of Daniel Day-Lewis in There Will Be Blood. Harrison’s simmering frustration boils over as the project’s costs spiral and László’s uncompromising artistic demands clash with financial realities. Pearce captures the toxic entitlement of a man whose benevolence is contingent on control, his veneer of generosity peeling away with every delay and mounting expense.

As time stretches on, Harrison’s support wanes, and the ambitious project grinds to a halt. The halt isn’t just financial—it becomes symbolic of the eroded partnership and the fraying edges of László’s pursuit of creative freedom in a world where wealth and power ultimately dictate the terms. It’s here where The Brutalist finds some of its sharpest commentary, illustrating the devastating intersections of art, ego, and class.

If there’s a fault with The Brutalist, it’s that Brady Corbet’s direction doesn’t feel as similarly concrete and stylized as the story it’s attempting to convey. The film’s sprawling runtime and ambitious effort to chronicle decades of an immigrant’s experience in 20th-century America are undeniably impressive on paper, but Corbet’s approach—by design so reserved and minimal—ultimately keeps the themes from resonating as deeply as they could. Adrien Brody delivers a meticulously crafted, subtle performance, but like Corbet’s filmmaking, it’s so restrained that it teeters on withholding. Brody’s László seems to hold his cards for so long that it starts to feel like he never really plays them at all.

Corbet’s influences are unmistakable, and while there’s no shame in borrowing from the greats, The Brutalist doesn’t quite measure up to the titans it evokes. The film wears the marks of The Godfather’s operatic storytelling, late-era Scorsese’s historical grandeur, and the psychological intensity of Paul Thomas Anderson’s There Will Be Blood and The Master. These are towering achievements in cinema, among the best ever made, and while The Brutalist ambitiously aims to sit among them, it doesn’t fully earn its place. Sprawling narratives and extended runtimes alone can’t carry the weight of such aspirations. Corbet reaches high, but the execution often feels more admirable than genuinely effective.

The film that came to mind most for me while watching The Brutalist was Sergio Leone’s Once Upon a Time in America—a movie I don’t hold in as high regard as the other towering achievements I mentioned earlier. Like Corbet’s work, Leone’s film is meticulous in its style and structure, but so consumed by its own design that its messages feel more hollow than resonant. Corbet finds himself in a similar predicament here. His decision to remove overt directorial flourishes in favor of maintaining an air of detachment might align with the film’s themes, but it inadvertently undercuts the emotional weight that could have elevated the story.

By striving for restraint and indifference, Corbet risks losing the audience’s connection to the story and its characters. While the meticulous attention to detail is impressive, the lack of a more assertive stylistic voice or emotional engagement ultimately works against what might have been in the film’s best interest. The result is a film that feels like it’s keeping viewers at arm’s length when it might have been more powerful leaning into its dramatic and thematic potential.

I walk away from The Brutalist appreciating it more than truly loving it. To its credit, the 3.5-hour runtime moves surprisingly briskly—you don’t feel its length as much as you might expect. Structured in two parts plus an epilogue (complete with a built-in intermission), Corbet designs the film to feel like an event. And in many respects, it succeeds in that regard.

But an event is, by its nature, meant to astonish—and that’s where The Brutalist falls short. It’s undeniably accomplished in its scope, performances, and thematic ambition, yet it lacks the emotional gut punch or raw impact that could have transformed it into something truly remarkable. What’s left is a film that earns admiration for its craft, but not the kind of deep resonance that lingers with you in the days that follow.

Score: 7/10