The Brutalist

In the aftermath of World War II, Europe lay in ruins, its cities shattered and its people displaced. Among the countless souls fleeing the devastation was Lázló Toth, a visionary architect whose life, career, and marriage had been torn apart by the war. With nothing but his talent and an unyielding determination to rebuild, Toth set his sights on America, a land of opportunity and uncharted potential. This is the gripping premise of The Brutalist, a film directed by Brad Corbett, written by Mona Fastvold, and brought to life by the exceptional Adrian Brody. Alongside Brody, the film features a stellar cast including Felicity Jones, Guy Pearce, and Isaach De Bankolé, among others.

The Brutalist is not just a film about architecture; it is a profound exploration of obsession, creation, and the sacrifices demanded by art. It tells the fictional story of Lázló Toth, a man whose life becomes a testament to how architecture and obsession can shape an entire existence. The film delves into the idea that art demands everything from the artist—every breath, every moment, every ounce of strength. And when it has taken all, it still sifts through the remnants, ensuring that nothing is left untouched, that every fragment of life has been wholly surrendered to its cause.

The narrative unfolds in Pennsylvania, where Toth, alone in an unfamiliar country, begins to rebuild his life. His talent catches the eye of a wealthy and prominent industrialist, Vanir (played by Guy Pearce), who becomes both his patron and his antagonist. Vanir represents the commodification of art, the expectation that creativity must serve a purpose, that it must be functional, marketable, and profitable. Yet, Toth’s vision transcends utility. His creations are not mere buildings; they are manifestations of his soul, his pain, and his resilience.

One of the film’s most poignant moments occurs when Toth’s wife, Ebet (Felicity Jones), gazes at the blueprints of a building he is designing. When he asks what she is doing, she simply replies, “I’m observing you.” This scene encapsulates the film’s central theme: art is not about the object itself but about the person behind it. Ebet sees not just the sketches of a structure but the man who poured his essence into every line. In contrast, Vanir sees only the potential for profit, the utility of the creation, not the humanity that birthed it.

The film’s technical elements mirror its thematic depth. The score, a haunting orchestral arrangement, ebbs and flows like the creative process itself. At times, it is a cacophony of tuning instruments, a chaotic prelude to harmony. This mirrors Toth’s journey, where the apparent disorder of his life and mind gives way to something profoundly beautiful. The cinematography, too, is deliberate and immersive. The camera often stumbles, searching for the right angle, much like Toth himself as he navigates his tumultuous existence. It is a reminder that we are witnessing not just a story but the vision of an artist—director Brad Corbett—who, like Toth, is crafting something raw and real.

Adrian Brody’s performance as Lázló Toth is nothing short of masterful. He portrays a man haunted by his past, driven by an insatiable need to create, and yet constantly at odds with the world around him. Toth’s creations are not just buildings; they are monuments to his survival, his defiance, and his humanity. In one particularly moving scene, Toth reflects on the buildings that survived the war in Budapest, his voice trembling with a mix of sorrow and resolve. Brody captures the essence of a man who has endured annihilation and now seeks to leave something eternal behind.

The Brutalist is a film that demands patience and introspection. It challenges the viewer to look beyond the surface, to see not just the structure but the soul within. It asks us to consider what we expect from art and from the artists who create it. Is art meant to serve a function, or is it an expression of the human experience? Can we truly understand the depths of an artist’s vision, or must we simply allow it to exist, to resonate within us in ways we cannot fully articulate?

In the end, The Brutalist is more than a film about architecture; it is a meditation on the nature of creation itself. It reminds us that art is not always meant to be understood but to be felt. It is a testament to the idea that the greatest creations often emerge from the deepest wounds, and that the true measure of an artist’s work lies not in its utility but in its ability to move, to inspire, and to endure.

As the final frames fade, we are left with a question: Was it worth the wait? For Lázló Toth, the answer is clear. His life, his pain, his sacrifice—they were all worth it. And for us, the audience, the journey is equally transformative. The Brutalist is not just a film; it is an experience, a monument to the enduring power of art and the indomitable spirit of those who create it.