George O’Mahony’s review published on Letterboxd:
CIFF #6
”It’s ambitious. I thought you’d like that.”
What is a legacy?
It's planting seeds in a garden you never get to see
I wrote some notes at the beginning of a song someone will sing for me
America, you great unfinished symphony
You sent for me
You let me make a difference
A place where even orphan immigrants
Can leave their fingerprints
And rise up
I'm running out of time, I'm running,
And my time's up, wise up
Eyes up
THE BRUTALIST. At times, it is a dream; at other times, it is a nightmare. Its sweetest moments are treated to long, unbroken takes, but so are its most harrowing events. Irrespective of what happens, you must stay awake, you must keep moving; it is how most humans learn to live their lives, one way or another.
As can be expected from its runtime, The Brutalist is a picture that accommodates a considerable amount of breathing room for its audience. Despite the bittersweet tale it depicts, a comforting energy is present throughout that allows the viewer to cognise every beat of its narrative and seldom feel drained. Out of its most daunting feature, comes its most inviting; The Brutalist is bifurcated by a 15-minute intermission that is presented with an image depicting the wedding of László Tóth and his wife Erzsébet (who we have not yet met), signifying that better times are soon to come. These fifteen minutes of freedom fill the audience with as much joy as Tóth at his finest hour, and this excitement carries over into the second half beautifully – the momentum is back already.
The actors in The Brutalist are just as impressive as the gigantic monoliths they are frequently situated next to. This troupe of thespians carry so much of the emotional weight in this story; challenged with the compounded requirement to act cinematically and theatrically simultaneously. Every performer involved fully embodies their respective role; it is a truly beautiful ensemble to witness. They all act as a stunning testament to Brady Corbet, whose acting experience shines through in his directing of these wonderful craftspeople.
Adrien Brody. A breathtaking engine in this film’s narrative. His familiarity with portraying Jewish artists torn apart by adversity comes as no surprise; you will see Tóth more than you see Brody, not an ounce of Brody remains when Tóth appears on screen. His performance will leave you laughing as much as it will leave you dauntedly frozen in your seat.
Felicity Jones. Thousands have overlooked her talent over the years, and her performance as László’s loyal wife in this picture proves that. She is unrecognisable as Erzsébet, except for the ineffable eloquence in every line she delivers (one could almost argue her character’s time at Oxford was responsible for Jones’ signing onto the role). Nothing involving Jones bar the voiceover of Erzsébet’s letters is present in the first half, but from the moment Jones is introduced at the start of “Part 2: The Hard Core of Beauty”, she will confiscate any viewer’s ability to discuss this film without mentioning her.
Guy Pearce. Quite possibly the performance that audiences will engage with the most—he’s hilarious until he’s not—there are so many idiosyncrasies to his portrayal of this complicated industrialist that at first might appear as silly gags — almost like this character serves as the comic relief to the story — but sooner or later, an audience member will realise that Pearce is delivering a flawless portrayal of this film’s cunning villain. An American hiring a Hungarian-Jew—the prejudice has to slip out at some point—while seated outside a café near the stunning Carrara Quarries in Italy, he can’t help but make a patronising comment about the Italian people. Pearce’s performance in this is as spectacular as the monument he hires Tóth to build.
There is little that can be said about Brady Corbet’s showcase of masterful filmmaking seen in The Brutalist that can’t be explained by simply watching the film with one’s own eyes. The screenplay, which Corbet co-wrote with his partner Mona Fastvold is packed with so much beauty, so much horror, so much wit, so much intelligence, so much humanity; its two writers prove themselves as diligent students of the medium; they know how to craft a story effectively, they know how to depict a narrative that superficially feels like an ordinary documentation of life, but after closer examination, each story beat is easily distinguishable. Alas, a script is only as good as its director; in cinema, what’s a story without someone to realise it? A three-and-a-half-hour film directed by a man unknown to many people surely caused widespread confusion upon this film’s introduction to the world, but Corbet succeeds in tackling such a visual behemoth as any veteran director who has produced a similarly sprawling epic this decade; from montages to long takes, from scenes of loving to scenes of ravishing, from shooting mountains to shooting skyscrapers, this man shows the same aptness to direct in one modest project that would take many other directors a whole lifetime to display.
Corbet is not the only benefactor to the perpetual beauty of this film. Cinematographer Lol Crawley and editor Dávid Jancsó create a wonderful synergy with their partnership — the visuals complement the editing, the editing complements the visuals — on a countless number of occasions, this film will abruptly cut to breathtaking shots, whether they be of sculptures or people, and with the snap of a finger, momentum for the rest of the scene is set – it is electrifying to witness every time it happens. And then, lurking in the background from the very beginning, a voice is heard that adds so much power to every moment, and that voice is Daniel Blumberg’s bewitching score. While these compositions constantly find ways to innovate and create, it’s the main recurring musical theme of this film that will leave the most impact; each time you hear it, you get a sense that if things seem lost right now, hope is near; at any moment that an ephemeral sense of stagnancy might occur, Blumberg’s score will return to keep things moving; truly monumental technical work all around.
Words are never enough. Dialogue is never enough. Therefore, the ultimate question is begged: is art enough? The Brutalist ponders this question for its entire runtime, but it is ultimately the viewer’s job to answer it.
As an artist, there is no comparable experience to witnessing the inevitable trials and tribulations that come to all artists being documented in cinema. Whether the character is an architect, an actor, a drummer, or even a chocolatier, they speak for anyone who has ever expressed themselves in a creative or ingenious way. You can use words, you can use paint, you can use music, it doesn’t matter. For this particular story, Lászlo Tóth’s choice of art form is architecture — brutalist architecture, to be exact.
Tóth designs these resplendent structures that are always a joy to look at despite their monochromatic appearance. They are always practical and straightforward compositions, nothing is ever too flashy or self-indulgent. Tóth has always been a man that has never asked for any more than he needs, and that is clear in his art; every project he embarks on is only meant to benefit somebody else — some of his designs aren’t even apropos to his own religion — but over time, as more and more people get involved in the masterpiece project that this film’s second act surrounds and start infringing on Tóth’s creative freedom and vision, he becomes frustrated and questions the point of any of it. Every comment and thought that Corbet and Fastvold express about art through Tóth is relevant to the experiences of all artists across the world, and it’s truly heartwarming to see that a film of such a vast scope, that spans decades of time, and travels the globe, is ultimately a straightforward story about a man trying to earn a living making art.
As is the case for any artistic venture, Tóth is not the only piece of this allegorical puzzle. Guy Pearce plays Harrison Lee Van Buren, an eccentric and hot-headed client of Tóth’s, who is a symbol for many (film) producers across the world. His gradual descent from being willing to compromise to demanding his way must be followed is terrifying to watch at time; he values his wishes over the health and safety of the people fulfilling those wishes. The Brutalist is so many different things at once—there are so many ways to interpret it—but at its true core, it is a fable that teaches artists everywhere to think selectively and carefully about who you bring along on your artistic journey, and in whose hands you should you trust your creative soul.
The Brutalist presents two endings to its viewer. The first of which is much darker and more ambiguous. It possesses the lengthiest and most intricate long take of the entire film, and every actor audaciously sprints the final stretch of this cinematic marathon (so you must run with them); the major cliffhanger it leaves you on will be a major discussion point surrounding this film, even though the answers one finds may be dire.
The true conclusion of this epic is much more irrevocable and final. Much like the mindset of the protagonist, The Brutalist is able to move on from its most harrowing moments and end on a note that puts a positive spin on the whole film. Its epilogue plants you in the canals of Venice, where everything feels futuristic and modern compared to anything you’ve seen before in the film, yet that modernity feels directly inspired by all of Tóth’s ingenious architecture. And in the middle of all this ceremonious tribute, Tóth sits there—despite his old age, he’s as content as we’ve seen him—however, the cause of this serenity is left up to interpretation, maybe his end goal was for his work to be honoured and his legacy to be remembered, or maybe he just wanted to support his wife and niece; this purpose depends from artist to artist, Tóth’s story doesn’t need to be like yours, but it can be.
2024 has been a popular year for pictures that look forward; films that ponder the future, and consider what is needed to make the world of tomorrow worth living in. Jane Schoenbrun’s I Saw the TV Glow is one example of this trend, and its image of the future is quite a haunting one; with the powerful ending of their sophomore feature, Schoenbrun welcomes the idea that the inactivity that someone experiences today in their own life could be present decades down the line, and the pain you feel now will only continue eating away at you until there is nothing left to chew on. The Brutalist boasts an unconventional way of looking forward — the most recent event that happens in the film still predates this film’s release by decades — but this picture opens with the pain and hardship of the Second World War still fresh in the minds of its characters (at least those who were oppressed by it), so while the idea of jumping ahead three and a half decades from V-E Day might not seem like something an audience of today’s world can relate to, 1980 is very much a world of the future for the characters in this story. The Brutalist shows that if these people, whose future didn’t seem very bright to them when they arrived in “The Land of Opportunity”, can safely arrive in a modern world where they are no longer exploited but admired, then anyone can.
“No matter what the authors try and tell you, it is the destination, not the journey.”
