Just like the architectural movement it takes its name from, The Brutalist is a sharp-edged and tough film. The sense of mass created by raw concrete permeates the film with all its weight. The biggest difference from Brutalism itself is that even when the sound of light is muted, colors seep into the scenes with a dignified presence.
The weakest aspect of The Brutalist is that it touches on too many powerful themes. Each one is so heavy that it becomes difficult to pinpoint the film’s central struggle. You might argue that in daily life, people face countless problems within the limits of time. However, even in such situations, we prioritize our struggles, ranking them from greatest to smallest—like milk boiling over in a pot, our troubles spill over in order of urgency.
Immigration, genocide, religion, belonging, art, capitalism, addiction, sex, loyalty… During The Brutalist‘s three-hour runtime, your chest tightens as you struggle to decide which of these burdens deserves the most focus.
For me, the most suffocating and therefore the most compelling theme is the state of being an outcast—never truly belonging where you’ve arrived, being excluded by those who claim to welcome you, and consequently accumulating a sharp inner rage.
One of the root causes of this feeling is immigration. Even if you were a highly respected and immensely talented artist in your homeland, in the place you’ve migrated to, you must prove—or at the very least, explain—yourself all over again. This means that people who have no right to judge you may still look down on you simply because of your disheveled state. Their own brutality and lack of appreciation make them put on airs as if they’re bestowing some grand favor upon you, disguising their condescension as generosity.
One of the strongest representations of this type of character is played by Guy Pearce. He externalizes his contradictions, insecurities, and repressed desires through a façade of sophistication, as if he were a master of subtlety or a deep thinker. In reality, his character embodies many of America’s flaws—its superficial hospitality, its patronizing philanthropy, and its tendency to regurgitate second-hand knowledge as intellectualism—all of which ultimately give rise to pure cruelty.
Adrien Brody’s character, on the other hand, directs his harshest treatment toward himself and his own body. Unable to digest his state of exile, he seeks paths that further diminish him—homelessness, drug addiction. And yet, beneath his rough exterior, Brody possesses something Pearce’s character never will, no matter how much wealth he pours into it: a true talent, a refined intelligence, and a layered aesthetic sensibility. The film revolves around the power struggle between these two men, ensnaring those around them in their web.
I also find the discourse around the film’s handling of the Israel issue to be valid. I’m not sure how it could have tackled this more gracefully as a historical film, but given that the central question revolves around “what is home?” it’s easy to interpret the film’s notion of home as the newly established Israel of that time. This makes the film’s political stance a bit precarious.
Despite all this, The Brutalist is a masterfully directed work. And for that reason, I see it as one of the most significant cinematic achievements in recent years.