The Brutalist Beautifully Builds a Towering Immigration Epic

Much like its subject’s architectural undertakings, The Brutalist–actor-turned-filmmaker Brady Corbet’s mammoth mid-century odyssey–has been long in the making: six years, two principal casts, and countless obstacles, to be exact. And it shows, in sheer craft and consideration. You don’t have to look further than the opening credits.

A strange busy body of text crawls horizontally across the screen in one long train of evolving brutalist design, country roads at dawn racing by behind the text in superwide shots strapped to the grill of a speeding car, a la Fury Road. The sequence takes off to the sound of chugging cellos and an anvil of a drum. Wincing violins and clanking piano keys trickle in with an offbeat dissonance that complicates the breathtaking beauty of it all.

The opening credits drop ceremoniously after Jewish-Hungarian architect László Tóth (Adrien Brody in career-topping work) emerges from the dark chaos of an immigration vessel, elated by the upside down sight of the Statue of Liberty, the framing a harbinger of the cruel, stifled brand of liberty given to Jewish immigrants in 1947 America. An ambient orchestral wail cries out, followed by a blaring French horn, a triumphant foreboding bursting from the brass tube, courtesy of experimental indie rocker Daniel Blumberg’s riveting score, unbelievably only the second of his career.

Arriving in the country on his own–wife Erzsébet (Felicity Jones) and niece Zsófia (Raffey Cassidy) still stuck back in Europe, now under punishing Soviet rule–László gets a job and accompanying lodging in Philadelphia from Attila (Alessandro Nivola), a fellow Hungarian Jew who knows the hardship of immigrating. But also, imperatively, Attila knows what László is capable of.

An insanely accomplished architect, László is implied to be near-legendary in his prime, but is living below the radar as a result of the war (He survived Buchenwald and Erzsébet and Zsófia survived Dachau, albeit with severe health conditions). He is an understated man–humble, sad-eyed, appreciative, driven–until someone interferes with his plans. He carries no pomp or expectation, despite his achievements, or perhaps because of them, a lasting sense of contentment and meaning imbued by work. Soft, cozy, floating piano lightens the film’s atmosphere often, even when conflicts are in freefall, all moments moored by the same circumstance: László at work. For better or worse, he adores his work.

Attila asks László to design furniture for his home goods store, a modest undertaking for someone of László’s former stature. But he’s very grateful for the offer, and soon he’s commissioned for his first significant project, converting a mogul’s regal study into a personal library. In short, the novelty of the library loses him his work, shelter, and only friend, just before it gains him everything. The space of the library is both very easy and very difficult to describe, so we’ll let you discover it. As László sagely puts it: “Is there a better description of a cube than that of its construction?” Leave it to Corbet’s singular cinematic sense to tell a story that absolutely requires visualization.

Guy Pearce is terrific as Harrison Lee Van Buren, a classic cutthroat American entrepreneur who is the first to recognize László’s minimalist genius stateside. Van Buren dons a crystal clear, bourgeois boom of a voice that shouts stubborn, mid century steel man. A self-made mogul, he naturally hates handouts and beggars and all but ignores his eager, overconfident son, Harry, who thrives on nepotism. Harry (Joe Alwyn delivering his first unforgettable role) is a whiny crumb of a manchild who always ends up back on the film’s shirt no matter how many people flick him off.