If it weren’t for the new Bob Dylan biopic, A Complete Unknown, I would have never seen The Brutalist. But because I saw A Complete Unknown twice in theaters, and because the trailers included a most captivating preview of The Brutalist, and because a friend with good taste in art told me I would like it, on a recent day off I purchased my ticket for a matinee showing of the multi-Oscar-nominated, three-hour-and-thirty-five-minute film. The Brutalist went on to snag three Oscar wins: Best Cinematography, Best Original Score, and Adrien Brody for Best Actor.
Entering the theater that afternoon, I knew little about brutalist architecture, but what I knew was enough. I knew that the brutalist movement emerged after the Second World War and, to be more precise, that it emerged in response to the horrific loss of human life coupled with the devastation of many historic cities and towns after the war. Brutalism, therefore, is not interested in beauty as much as it is interested in persistence. Brutalist buildings tend to be angular, minimalistic, and utilitarian, often constructed of unpainted concrete and steel; they feel raw and are intentionally cold and lack any reference to history or tradition. Brutalist architecture is recognizable not because it is beautiful, but because it stands up boldly and defiantly against forces that can destroy what is beautiful. Brutalism embodies a posture of self-defense, and it doesn’t care if it is ugly. It simply wants to survive.
Everything and everyone is broken in Brady Corbet’s The Brutalist, including the protagonist’s nose at the start of the film. László Tóth (Adrien Brody) is a Jewish architect who was forcibly separated from his Oxford-educated wife Erzsébet (Felicity Jones) during the war and flees his homeland of Hungary to make a new life for himself in the United States. We soon discover that this new life may not be a better life, and the iconic scene of the great ship filled with tired yet hopeful immigrants entering the New York Harbor tells us all we need to know. Our view of the Statue of Liberty is not beautiful, or glorious, or inspiring—it is literally upside down, then sideways, grainy and gray. It is a brutal image, and it serves as a powerful metaphor.
Brutalism embodies a posture of self-defense, and it doesn’t care if it is ugly. It simply wants to survive.
Once he’s cleared customs, László’s first experience of America is to visit a prostitute. This scene is disturbing but important; it sets the tone for the transactional and dehumanizing manner with which László will be treated throughout the film.
Next, Tóth makes his way to Philadelphia and connects with his cousin Atilla (Alessandro Nivola) who calls his furniture shop “Miller and Sons,” even though his last name is Molnar and he and his Catholic wife Audrey (Emma Laird) have no children. Atilla offers László a job designing furniture as well as a small storage room in which to live. This arrangement works for a time, but only as long as László is useful to Atilla and Audrey. In The Brutalist, hospitality, kindness, and help are always conditional, and László knows it, which is why he takes comfort in jazz clubs, heroin, and underground porn theaters. None of these things makes him happy, but it’s not clear that he’s looking for happiness as much as he’s simply trying to survive.
At the heart of the film is the relationship between László Tóth and Harrison Lee Van Buren (Guy Pearce), an irascible millionaire whose library Tóth redesigns at the request of Van Buren’s son as a surprise birthday gift. At first Van Buren is furious with the unexpected project, not only because Tóth’s modern design style is abhorrent to him and his books are out of place, but because he is grieving the imminent death of his mother. However, once Van Buren receives praise for his taste in design after being featured in a popular magazine, he researches Tóth and realizes that the gifted man who redesigned his library is a famous European architect whose skill and talent have been underutilized since arriving in the United States and could be of great benefit to him. Soon Van Buren hires Tóth to design a mammoth concrete monument dedicated to the memory of his late mother on the picturesque rise of his expansive property. The men agree on the project and a price, and Van Buren provides a home for Tóth as well as legal help to bring his wife and niece Zsófia (Raffey Cassidy) to the United States. At first, it seems like the American Dream come true, but nothing in this film is as it seems. Everything is conditional and everything comes with a price.
It’s not clear that he’s looking for happiness as much as he’s simply trying to survive.
Erzsébet Tóth paid that price with her body; when she finally reunites with her husband László at the train station, we find her confined to a wheelchair, suffering bone damage from years of malnourishment in the concentration camp. Erzsébet is the only real light in László’s life, although even that light is fractured. László is ashamed of his infidelities and unsure of how to love his wife, or if he can love her due to her bodily condition, but she offers him both forgiveness and assurance, although not exactly by way of the marital embrace. The intimate scenes between László and Erzsébet in The Brutalist are intense, and many Catholics would rightly argue unnecessary, but they are in the film and I want to say something about them. At the very least, their marital bed becomes a place where sins and secrets are confessed (by László) and received and forgiven (by Erzsébet). Because of all the suffering László endures—most directly and brutally at the hands and wicked urges of jealous and spiteful Van Buren in the bowels of the earth at the marble quarry in Venice—Erzsébet’s ability to receive him both figuratively and literally becomes one of the few blessings in his life. In fact, although we are not privileged as viewers to witness László’s revelation of his darkest secret to his wife, we discover he does—in a drugged state—reveal the sexual assault to her, which results in a climactic scene where Erzsébet courageously (and literally) stands up to Van Buren and calls him out for his evil and inhumane ways.
The Brutalist is not for everyone. When I saw it, there were only two other people in the theater. It is certainly not for children and probably not for most adults. But I am glad that I saw it, as it allowed me to ponder the human condition and remind me that when people are merely trying to survive, it is difficult to speak of virtue and human flourishing. This is not to say people in dire conditions or terrible suffering and trauma can’t open themselves up to grace and the transforming power of God and Christ’s Paschal Mystery in particular—because the saints show us that such is possible—but that it often proves difficult to know what to say or what to do with individuals whose hearts are so broken that they’ve lost all hope.
The Psalmist tells us that “this poor man cried, and the Lord heard him, and saved him out of all his troubles” (Ps. 34:6). The Brutalist is a good reminder that before the Lord saved, he heard. Sometimes I miss that step. I forget to listen. The Brutalist has helped make me a better listener to the cries of the poor, to those simply wanting to survive. And for that I am most grateful.