Complete with a decades-spanning narrative and even an intermission, there is no denying that Brady Corbet’s The Brutalist is the year’s defining American epic. This is so thrillingly grandiose in its vision of a country of opportunity and prosperity, and after arguably the greatest opening sequence I’ve seen come out of 2024, despite the gargantuan runtime, it becomes effortless to sink into the portrait Corbet and co. have drawn up: the American dream from the eyes of post-war immigrants, something as grand in scope as it is intimate in perspective. And therein lies the film’s brilliance. As incomprehensible as the $10 million budget is, the ultimate story here is one of character study. László Tóth is a revered architect, but what does that mean in the dark underside of America’s capitalist empire? By thoroughly exploring both him and Guy Pearce’s utterly haunting Harrison Lee Van Buren, The Brutalist shows itself as something much darker than I could’ve imagined. A movie concerning art and its makers, it’s clear that Corbet admires the iconic structures conjured up. Yet he never ceases to uncover the hidden darkness at the hands of those who allow them to come to be. As the movie says itself, “It is about the destination, not the journey.” And that is true, but only because the latter ultimately goes unseen. Such is the nature of creation.