Living in Washington, D.C., I spend a lot of my commute time staring up at the Brutalist architecture around me—huge and hulking structures built of bare concrete, testaments to the sheer assertion of power. Beloved by much of the architectural establishment but detested by many laypeople, Brutalism has proven extraordinarily controversial over the years, even giving rise to a 2020 executive order that would’ve ended the use of the style for federal buildings.
Indeed, Brutalism can even be interpreted as a deep-rooted movement away from the classical Western emphasis on truth, goodness, and beauty. In the words of architect Mark Bittoni, “The philosophy behind Brutalist architecture is rooted in the belief that architectural design should prioritize functionality, honesty, and social purpose.” There is little room for depth, transcendence, or subtlety here.
Brady Corbet’s sprawling new historical epic, The Brutalist, is at once both a celebration of the style and a subversion of it. As a film, The Brutalist takes the form of a biographical drama centered on (fictional) Hungarian Jewish architect—and concentration camp survivor—László Tóth (Adrien Brody). Separated from his wife Erzsébet (Felicity Jones) in Europe, László is thrown headlong into the chaotic churn of postwar American society and forced to find menial work beneath his professional talents.
When a home-renovation job leads to a chance encounter with wealthy industrialist Harrison Van Buren (Guy Pearce), László’s luck changes: Van Buren admires László’s daringly modern aesthetic and commissions him to build a strange new structure. The building, sited on Van Buren’s property, will be a sort of community center housing four institutions under one roof: a gym, a theater, a library, and a Christian chapel. Despite the oddness of the ask, László agrees and sets to work—designing a castle-like Brutalist building and vigorously beating off efforts to compromise or change his vision.
When Erzsébet finally arrives in America, several years into László’s work, she finds her husband a different man—scarred by past traumas, and obsessed by present concerns. László is distant, barely able to relate to her as husband to wife—despite struggling for years to bring her to America. Difficulties and delays impede his creative work for years. But in the end—after all these tensions, finally, culminate in a shocking act of violation and tragedy—László prevails, at least in a way.
In a haunting epilogue set years after László’s “vindication,” the truth comes out: if Brutalism is, historically, defined by its “honesty” and straightforwardness, then what László has been doing, all this time, is not in fact “Brutalist” at all. Rather, his creative work has been animated by a deep symbolism and purposiveness—indeed, by love.
Given its slow pace, grim and heady themes, and extended runtime—over three and a half hours—The Brutalist is far from mainstream fare. And yet at the same time, Corbet’s film—anchored by Brody’s performance—manages to remain utterly compelling. The Brutalist is really several stories in one—a story of artistic perfectionism (a la Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead), a story of bittersweet romance, a story of American capitalism, and a deeply intimate story about specifically Jewish life in America—and the lengthy runtime simply serves to give these interlocking tales the breathing room they warrant. (I can’t recall the last time I saw a movie that had an overture and intermission—maybe The Hateful Eight?—but they are welcome inclusions here.)
Over and beyond and through all this, of course, is the thematic question that dominates the film: what is Brutalism? What is its place? And here, I must concede that—despite all the critical things I’ve said about the style over the years, and all the mental epithets I’ve directed at the J. Edgar Hoover FBI Building every time I pass it—Corbet’s film led me to think a little bit differently about Brutalism. Perhaps—beneath all the pontificating about authenticity, honesty, and a rejection of ornamentation and meaning—no architect can ever truly fail to pursue the Good, in some way or another. Perhaps even the most apparently flawed art has, within itself, the germ of its own redemption.
And that is a thought well worth taking four hours out of my life to ponder.
Literary Analysis 