“Nothing is so terrible as a pretentious movie. I mean, a movie that aspires for something really terrific and doesn't pull it off.” — Francis Ford Coppola, “Hearts of Darkness”
Director Brady Corbet’s “The Brutalist” is the current darling of the awards circuit — alongside “Emilia Perez.” The film won the Golden Globes’ coveted “Best Picture – Drama” category and Corbet also came away with the “Best Director” prize. While this praise has been received warmly and appreciatively by Corbet and his team, it has also served as ammunition for his argument in favor of directorial control for all filmmakers.
“The Brutalist” is as much the text itself — a story of a Holocaust survivor and talented architect, Laszlo (Adrien Brody), who makes his way to the U.S. and befriends a powerful patron, Van Buren (Guy Pierce), of his art — as it is a metatextual argument for the future of filmmaking.
Van Buren, an intellectually-outmatched magnate, offers Laszlo the opportunity to create what could be his magnum opus: a multifaceted community center situated on the top of a hill to serve as a memorial to Van Buren’s late mother.
Laszlo etches the plans and lays the foundations for a concrete, angular and cold edifice. The city upon a hill is no longer a beacon of hope; it’s a symbol of oppression. The project Van Buren tasked Laszlo with to edify both himself and his mother is instead being used as a statement against oppression right under his nose.
The film is broken into two halves: “The Enigma of Arrival” and “The Hard Core of Beauty.” The halves are separated by two distinct tones. The first half centers on the idea of willing establishment — the creation of a home, a name for one’s self and the uniting of a family. The push and pull of Laszlo and Van Buren’s relationship is subtle and real. Anger and love are expressed in sheltered, nuanced manners. Tongues are bitten; laughs are faked; and expressions of adoration are met with polite, hidden annoyance.
The second half focuses on how the self manifests once the dynamics of life are settled. Laszlo’s wife, Erzsebet (Felicity Jones), finally joins him, and his life and work intertwine. Once the intermission ceases, the film figuratively (and literally) falls off of the rails. Themes are cranked to ten. Emotions and decisions are rash and nonsensical. Corbet’s concept of himself and his art must be realized.
This broad plot synopsis brings to mind American epics like “There will be Blood,” “The Godfather,” “2001: A Space Odyssey” or “Days of Heaven.” As “The Brutalist” unfolds, the themes and images of these films flash in the viewer’s consciousness, but with equal strength, so does the knowledge that this is exactly what Corbet wants you to conjure. “The Brutalist” is not an American epic by virtue. It's an epic by design.
When viewing “The Brutalist” in this manner, the goals of the plot and characters become more nefarious. Brody’s lead role as architect is yearning, shuddered and unlikeable. His frail, jagged and intelligent appearance contrasts Guy Pierce’s stoicism, breadth and bravado. Laszlo is the type of man who you don’t like, and you know why; Van Buren is a man who you don’t want to like, but do anyway.
While one of the films listed prior would build the bigger themes of capitalism, the individual v. society, otherness or love from this foundational interplay of two men, “The Brutalist” feels more like it’s using Van Buren and Lazlo as marionettes for these themes and Corbet’s personal agenda.
As mentioned above, Corbet is on a crusade for directorial independence. In fact, this entire film can be seen as a representation of his artistic worldview: a great man with great artistic goals must serve as a serf to a man with no other virtue than money. The film goes through painstaking lengths to ensure that you understand this point.
It’s this interjection of self into a movie of such a self-proclaimed stature that gives emotional pause. I, as a viewer, can have profound empathy for Laszlo — a Holocaust survivor, great architect and man searching for self expression in a country that doesn’t know what it wants to do with him. When Corbet ascribes Laszlo’s greatness to himself — an artist best known for being in the American “Funny Games” remake — patience can wear thin. It’s tough to give Corbet any more credit than he is already giving himself.
In the final scenes we scour the interior of Laszlo’s masterpiece for Van Buren, who has disappeared due to a personal falling-out. We turn corners, get lost, gaze at the magnificence of Laszlo’s grand creation. No man is in sight, just the greatness of one man’s artistic vision. This is how Corbet views himself. His work will stand the test of time, and those who financed him will not.
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Kadin Purath is a Trinity junior and a culture editor for Recess.