Brady Corbet’s cinematic opus, The Brutalist, premiered this year to critical acclaim and has quickly become a top contender for several prestigious awards, including seven Golden Globe nominations. Clocking in at three and a half hours — with a formal intermission breaking up its two acts — the film is as ambitious as it is demanding. It tells the story of László Tóth (played by Adrien Brody), a Bauhaus-trained architect who, in the aftermath of the Holocaust, arrives in the United States seeking to rebuild both his life and his career. The Brutalist has resonated with viewers, critics, and the film community at large for its thematic richness, historical authenticity, and emotional complexity. Its director, Brady Corbet, a former actor turned filmmaker, has built a reputation for exploring the darker underpinnings of fame, trauma, and personal ambition. In his previous works, such as Vox Lux and The Childhood of a Leader, Corbet examined how culture and politics intersect with individual psyches and how tragedy often shapes the human condition. Now, with The Brutalist, he provides what many believe is his most epic, most layered piece of work yet.
However, if one were to distill The Brutalist down to a single idea, it’s this: it is a film about what individuals will do to survive and how survival sometimes exacts a harsh toll on their morals, relationships, and even their own sense of identity. By anchoring the film’s central character in László, a man haunted by the cataclysmic events of World War II and the near obliteration of European Jewry, Corbet sets up a narrative that interrogates assimilation, patronage, the unrelenting pace of American capitalism, and the complexities of personal ambition. The tension throughout the film is palpable: László stands at the crossroads of creative expression and personal compromise, of building something transcendent versus merely building something that caters to the whims of wealthy benefactors. The stakes of his life and career in the film neatly echo real-life architectural stories of the mid-20th century, where many European émigrés sought refuge in the United States, carrying the legacies of Bauhaus and modernist design but often struggling to reconcile their artistic ideals with the commercial realities of the New World.
In this expanded look at The Brutalist, we explore in depth the film’s narrative arcs, its central themes, and the creative processes behind its massive runtime. We also delve into Corbet’s discussions about how he balanced classical storytelling with intentional subversions, and how the film addresses issues of immigration, assimilation, and the ways in which wealth can demand as much from artists as any oppressive regime.
A Tale of Survival and Ambition
The central character, László Tóth, embodies the quest for renewal in the midst of personal, historical, and cultural upheaval. As portrayed by Adrien Brody, László is neither a saint nor a mere victim. He is, instead, a complex human being shaped by the atrocities of war, the terror of displacement, and the relentless demands of a wealthy patron class in Pennsylvania who see in him a chance to realize their own visions of grandeur. László arrives in America with hopes of returning to the architectural brilliance he had been developing in Europe, only to find that the pathway is more convoluted than he ever imagined.
Early in the film, László is introduced as a Bauhaus protégé who manages to flee Budapest in the aftermath of the Holocaust. This detail grounds his storyline in actual historical circumstances — many Hungarian Jews and other persecuted peoples fled Eastern and Central Europe during and after the war, often relying on relatives, philanthropic societies, or personal grit to navigate the complexities of immigration to America. While we don’t see every moment of his escape and arrival in Pennsylvania, the film carefully implies the horrors from which he has emerged: the devastation of the Holocaust, the forced separation from family, and the knowledge that a continent has been scarred by fascism. This background provides a strong emotional backbone for the film, setting the stage for László’s psychological terrain: survival instincts are at the forefront of his personality, and he’s keenly aware that he cannot fail in this new land.
Corbet, who co-wrote the script with his wife, Mona Fastvold, has stated that The Brutalist is, at its core, a meditation on assimilation. It grapples with both the external pressures society places on immigrants to conform and the internal conflicts immigrants often feel as they weigh personal expression against practical survival. The film also underscores, from its earliest moments, that László’s story is not an isolated one. Rather, it is part of a larger tapestry of émigré artists, designers, architects, and writers who settled in America and helped shape the nation’s artistic and cultural landscape.
Patronage and the Power of Wealth
Soon after arriving in Pennsylvania, László meets the Van Buren family, represented most powerfully by Guy Pearce’s character, Harrison Lee Van Buren. This family is wealthy beyond measure, seemingly philanthropic, and well-connected in American high society. Harrison is, in many ways, the embodiment of a specific breed of patron: he’s not just content to buy a painting or commission an artist’s design; he wants to own the creative spirit behind it all. He wants to collect the artist like a trophy to display, to shape, and to mold according to his whims.
This kind of patronage — which some might describe as manipulative or exploitative — is depicted in The Brutalist with considerable complexity. Corbet’s direction never simplifies Harrison’s motives to a mere thirst for power. Instead, the film suggests that in Harrison’s mind, he is championing the arts, sheltering László and his family, and offering them resources they might never otherwise see. Yet the tension arises because László, for all his humility, is a fiercely independent thinker shaped by the Bauhaus school, where collaboration and design were meant to serve humanity rather than the narrow tastes of the elite. The Van Burens promise László a massive community center commission, something that could revive his architectural career and catapult him into the ranks of revered mid-century modernists. But there is an unspoken bargain: László must find a way to conform to the Van Burens’ personal ambitions.
Throughout the first act, Corbet weaves in imagery and commentary around Pennsylvania’s architectural heritage. The state, rich in history and industrial growth, was a magnet for modernist architects seeking new opportunities in the mid-20th century. Many European designers, under the guidance of figures like Walter Gropius, Paul Rudolph, and Louis Kahn, found academic positions and commissions there. According to Corbet, this wasn’t just historical coincidence; it was a natural extension of the Bauhaus diaspora, with many professors and designers bringing their ethos of functional, avant-garde design to the northeastern United States. László’s journey is thus part of a broader migration of talent from war-ravaged Europe to the academically and culturally vibrant environment of universities and private commissions in the United States. This move, while offering unprecedented creative freedoms, also forced them to square their artistic ideals with a new form of patronage that often had more to do with money and status than with pure creative ingenuity.
Intermission and the Transformation of László’s World
One of the boldest structural choices in The Brutalist is its intermission, which effectively divides the film into two distinct acts. In an era when many viewers turn to streaming platforms and short-form content, Corbet took a gamble by maintaining a near four-hour runtime complete with a formal break. This deliberate choice to split the story acknowledges both the epic nature of the narrative and the massive psychological transitions that occur within László’s life. By the time viewers return for the second half, the film’s mood has shifted. László has found a kind of refuge on the Van Burens’ land. He’s been granted resources, and, more crucially, he manages to reunite with family members who were forcibly separated from him during the war.
However, the film also begins to highlight László’s darker side. Once we see him somewhat settled, with the immediate pangs of survival dulled by a measure of security, we see the cost of that security: László exhibits restlessness, indulges in alcohol, drugs, and extramarital affairs. His single-minded dedication to architectural brilliance coexists with self-destructive impulses. This complexity was something Corbet deliberately cultivated, wanting to avoid what he describes as the “altruistic survivor” trope that reduces characters who’ve endured historical trauma to near-saintly figures. For László, assimilation has moral quandaries attached; in his quest to become part of a new society, he indulges in the very vices and privileges that wealth can afford — and these indulgences begin to weigh heavily on his relationships, especially his marriage.
Corbet explains that he found it important for audiences to identify with László, but also to be confronted by his flaws. The film subverts simpler Hollywood narratives that portray survivors of genocide or forced migration as purely noble or unblemished. By emphasizing that László is a flawed human who can betray those closest to him, Corbet insists that our empathy need not rely on moral perfection. Instead, empathy is grounded in recognizing the layered, contradictory impulses of any human being who has endured great trauma. László’s skill, his determination, and his genuine love for his family are offset by his failings, making him a figure who is simultaneously admired and pitied.
Capturing Marble and Myth in Carrara
In the most striking sequence of the film’s second act, the setting shifts dramatically from Pennsylvania to the majestic marble quarries of Carrara, Italy. This segment has been singled out by critics for its almost mythic quality — a stark departure from the formalities of American society depicted earlier. As Corbet describes it, Carrara is a place that should, by its very nature, elude possession: its marble is a geologically unique product of millions of years, and yet wealthy patrons from around the world descend upon it to extract slabs of the stone, turning mountains into Swiss cheese in the name of opulence.
In The Brutalist, László travels to Carrara accompanied by Van Buren’s circle. The reason behind this journey is both practical and symbolic: the spectacular white marble can serve as the aesthetic heart of his most ambitious design. Yet the subtext is deeper. Corbet highlights that in the modern world, people want to collect not just artworks, but artists themselves. And there’s nothing more demonstrative of that phenomenon than a flight on a private helicopter to a quarry where millionaires can choose a marble slab as if it were a piece of fruit at the market. The film’s cinematography underscores the otherworldly beauty of Carrara’s terrain, while simultaneously drawing attention to the ecological and existential cost of this type of exploitation. Piles of discarded marble fragments, narrow ledges from which workers labor precariously, and gaping caverns created by centuries of extraction all serve as metaphors for what is consumed in the pursuit of greatness. László’s architectural masterpiece carries with it the weight of exploited resources — both literal stone and his own humanity.
This sequence also marks the film’s pivot toward a more surreal or Greek-mythic quality, hinting at how far László and his patrons have traveled from the idea of creating humane, functional spaces for communal use (the original Bauhaus ideal). Instead, the scope and splendor of the project seem to serve a less altruistic calling. By contrasting the harsh environment of Carrara’s quarries with the plush Pennsylvania estate, The Brutalist reveals László’s precarious position: he has ascended to a realm of near-unlimited wealth but cannot ignore how that wealth is procured. The more the film immerses itself in the harsh realities of the quarry, the more we see the toll of possession, extraction, and dominion — over materials, spaces, and people.
Immigrant Ambition in a New World
Part of what makes The Brutalist so timely, despite its mid-century setting, is the resonance its immigrant storyline has in contemporary discourse. Discussions of immigration policy continue to evolve, and questions of how newcomers assimilate — or resist assimilation — remain as relevant today as they were in the 1940s and 1950s. Corbet was mindful of how these themes would land with viewers, particularly in an era when immigration debates dominate headlines and shape political campaigns. By presenting László’s journey in parallel with broader themes of capitalism, wealth, and the commodification of art, the film underscores the universality of László’s plight: securing a foothold in a new society often requires personal sacrifices that an individual might never have anticipated.
One of the film’s standout moments arrives when László, in a moment of vulnerability, confides to Audrey, Harrison’s wife (or another close confidant, depending on the scene’s context), “I’m not what I expected either.” This succinct statement captures the essence of László’s struggle. Arriving in America, escaping the devastation of war, he likely believed he would become the architect of his own dreams, literally and figuratively building a new life that would overshadow the horrors of the past. Yet in the glare of real-life American privilege and patronage, he’s forced to confront the reality that assimilation can mean bending one’s principles and enduring moral compromises. The sense of disillusionment he feels with himself is heartbreaking because he recognizes that he cannot entirely blame external forces; it’s also his own ambition and desire for stability that have led him to morally ambiguous territory.
Adrien Brody’s portrayal is notable for how it captures that tension through subtle gestures, glances, and measured speech. Corbet remarks on Brody’s “anguish” and “grace,” identifying him as an actor of a different era. Brody brings a sort of old-school Hollywood gravitas combined with an underlying fragility, which is ideal for a mid-century period piece. Corbet also notes that Brody’s personal heritage informed the performance: the actor’s mother fled Hungary in 1956, during the revolution, which gave Brody an intimate sense of historical displacement and resilience. This background allowed him to inhabit the role of László in a way that illuminates the desperation, determination, and moral complexity of an immigrant artist in America.
Long-Form Cinema and the Audience’s Trust
One of the topics Corbet speaks about most passionately is the film’s length and pacing. At a time when many directors are pressured to keep running times under two hours, Corbet saw a three-and-a-half-hour runtime (with an intermission) as a necessary format for telling László’s epic story. Yet he distinguishes The Brutalist from what he calls “durational cinema.” Unlike the works of directors such as Béla Tarr or Lisandro Alonso — who use slow, hypnotic pacing and long takes to immerse viewers — Corbet’s film, while extended, maintains a more classical pace. Scenes rarely linger beyond their emotional or narrative need; instead, the extra time is spent allowing viewers to fully inhabit László’s world as it shifts through different locales, time periods, and emotional climates.
Corbet observes that in many mainstream Hollywood productions, the first 30 minutes can become a deluge of exposition, telling viewers everything about the protagonist’s background and motivations. He intentionally avoided that approach in The Brutalist. Instead, he drops the audience into László’s life, giving them the experience of meeting “a compelling stranger.” The audience slowly uncovers László’s layers, his war-torn past, his family history, and the deeper motivations driving his ambition, all at a measured pace that echoes the complexities of real life. This method demands a certain level of patience from viewers — but it also offers the reward of discovery, building a relationship with the character piece by piece, rather than being spoon-fed the details.
The film’s epilogue features an extended retrospective of László’s work. By the late 1970s or early 1980s (the film jumps ahead from the mid-century timeline), László’s designs have garnered widespread acclaim. We see him physically present at a retrospective event celebrating his architecture, but he’s emotionally distant, almost hollow. He stands amid his achievement — a pinnacle moment for any architect — yet appears unable to savor the triumph. Corbet invokes a Cormac McCarthy quote, “His spirit is exhausted at the peak of its achievement. His meridian is at once his darkening and the evening of his day.” This sentiment underscores the emotional contradiction at the heart of László’s success: publicly, it’s his crowning glory, but privately, it’s tainted by grief, regret, and the accumulation of life’s compromises. His wife has passed away; time has robbed him of the relationships that once sustained him. The applause feels empty in the face of such personal losses.
This nuanced view of success ties back to one of the film’s recurring ideas: that survival comes at a cost, and the pursuit of greatness often leaves behind scars that no professional accolade can fully heal. By the conclusion, the question lingers as to whether the grand accomplishments — the buildings, the accolades, the obituaries that will name him a master — were worth the emotional and moral sacrifices. In one of the final conversations, someone remarks that, at life’s end, most individuals caution younger generations to focus on personal relationships rather than external success. The Brutalist demonstrates that, for László, the search for that balance was, at best, partial and fraught with self-betrayals.
When Patronage Becomes Possession
Returning to the figure of Harrison Lee Van Buren, the film offers a devastating critique of what can happen when the wealthy view art not just as an investment but as an extension of their ego. Corbet is “fascinated by patrons that don’t want to just collect the work; they want to collect the artist.” He elaborates that Guy Pearce’s character understood this dynamic immediately upon reading the screenplay. That synergy between the script’s vision and the actor’s interpretation allowed Harrison to bloom into a villain both alluring and horrifying. He is never portrayed as a mustache-twirling caricature; instead, he is the ultimate reflection of an American upper-crust culture that merges paternalism with ownership, benevolence with intrusion.
In the first half of the film, Harrison’s generosity seems boundless: he rescues László from potential obscurity, provides him a platform for creative expression, and even uses his influence to help reunite the architect with estranged family members. Yet the second half reveals the emotional and moral shackles that come attached to such patronage. László is effectively indebted to Harrison and the Van Burens, with Harrison presiding over every development of the project. The subtext becomes clear: the Van Burens want an architectural marvel, but they also want to claim László’s spirit, shaping him into a kind of living testament to their own magnanimity. They do not just want to fund a visionary building; they want to say, “We discovered and molded this architect.”
Reflections on Architecture and Community
Beyond its historical context and its narrative about ambition, The Brutalist serves as a meditation on the purpose of architecture itself. The Bauhaus movement in Europe championed the idea that good design should be accessible to all, melding functional form with progressive, even utopian ideals about community and social equity. László Tóth, an inheritor of this tradition, initially comes to America with a desire to build communal spaces that elevate the human experience — places that reflect beauty, utility, and inclusivity. However, he finds himself in a society where architecture is frequently co-opted by powerful patrons who measure success by how many headlines or philanthropic dinners a project can generate. The dream of creating a “community center” becomes overshadowed by elitist extravagance, ultimately culminating in the monumental shift to Carrara, where the acquisition of precious marble becomes a symbol of exclusivity rather than community uplift.
The tension between László’s original Bauhaus-influenced aspirations and the final reality of his designs prompts viewers to consider how many visionary concepts are reshaped (or corrupted) once they collide with commerce and aristocratic patronage. Ultimately, The Brutalist paints a picture of architecture as a battleground for competing forces — the pursuit of beauty and utility on one side, and the display of power and wealth on the other. The film doesn’t necessarily resolve this tension neatly, but it forces the audience to reckon with the question: can architecture truly serve the common good when it is funded by individuals and institutions whose primary goal is to cement their legacy or indulge their whims?
Survival, Imperfection, and Empathy
Central to the film’s ethos is the idea that audiences can and should empathize with imperfect survivors. Corbet explicitly critiques the Hollywood trope of the “holocaust survivor as saint,” arguing that it discredits the profoundly human complexities of survival. László is a deeply sympathetic character, but he betrays his wife, abuses substances, and occasionally makes ethically dubious choices. He is neither a triumphant hero nor a moral failure — he’s a man whose capacity for greatness is marred by his capacity for destruction. He is, in short, a profoundly human figure.
This depiction aligns with broader themes in Corbet’s filmography. His previous works, Vox Lux and The Childhood of a Leader, explored how tumultuous events, whether personal or geopolitical, shape people’s identities, often exposing their flaws in tandem with their strengths. In Vox Lux, a pop star emerges from a tragic incident, only to become entangled in the commercial machine of fame, losing sight of her roots. In The Childhood of a Leader, a boy’s experiences in post-World War I Europe foreshadow the tyrannical path he may one day take. In all these stories, Corbet insists that trauma and ambition are not separate threads; they are often intertwined, producing characters whose actions resist tidy categorization.
The Brutalist continues this exploration by posing difficult questions about what is lost when someone becomes an emblem of survival, success, or artistic achievement. Does that person remain free to be flawed, or do they become an icon onto which society projects its own need for moral clarity and triumph? By the time the audience reaches the film’s final act, they realize that László’s achievements might indeed outlast him, standing for decades or centuries as physical structures. Yet the emotional torment that fueled those buildings is hidden in the footnotes of history, invisible to those who merely admire the architecture.
A Conclusion That Lingers
The closing moments of The Brutalist are deliberately open-ended, leaving viewers to debate whether László’s journey was ultimately a triumph or a tragedy. He attains professional accolades and the reverence of the architectural world. Critics praise his pioneering designs, scholars write books about his style, and exhibitions display the scale models of his projects. But the film’s final images suggest a man who has arrived at the pinnacle with a hollowed-out core.
Reflecting on that narrative arc, Corbet mentions that, at the end of life, most people advise future generations to focus on what truly matters: family, relationships, and the moments of quiet meaning that keep us human. László, having sacrificed or neglected much of that in his pursuit of art and assimilation, achieves a certain immortality as an architect but pays the price in personal happiness. This is the crux of The Brutalist: it rejects the simplistic notion that surviving war and oppression automatically leads to moral purity or unadulterated success. Instead, it posits that survival is an ongoing negotiation, a daily choice informed by trauma, ambition, and the offers one cannot afford to refuse.
In an interview, Corbet mused on how the experiences of journalists, artists, architects, or any creative individuals under capitalism often converge on similar issues: the constant push and pull between needing to make a living and wanting to stay true to one’s voice. Just as László grapples with compromises in his architectural vision, journalists might struggle with editorial choices constrained by funding, and musicians might capitulate to commercial trends. The film broadens this idea into a universal statement about modern life, where assimilation isn’t just about adapting to a new country but also about adapting one’s ideals in the face of institutional power.
By the time the credits roll, the viewer is left with a bittersweet sense of empathy for László. He has survived genocide, diaspora, and the relentless demands of his patrons. He has built structures that will endure, a testament to his creativity and intelligence. And yet there’s an aching emptiness, a sense that in surviving, something vital in him was eroded. As Corbet repeatedly emphasizes, The Brutalist does not aim to moralize or to present easy answers. Rather, it invites reflection on what it truly means to rebuild a life when the world itself has changed irrevocably.
Why The Brutalist Might Be One of the Year’s Best Films
In a year that has seen a wide range of cinematic offerings, from superhero blockbusters to minimalist arthouse fare, The Brutalist stands out for its audacious scope. It is a historical epic, a character study, a critique of capitalism and patronage, and a deeply human story of an immigrant’s quest for survival. Corbet’s deft handling of pacing, combined with deeply researched historical context and the standout performances of an ensemble cast (including not just Adrien Brody and Guy Pearce, but also Isaach De Bankolé and others), positions the film at the center of awards buzz. Its seven Golden Globe nominations are a testament to both its craftsmanship and its resonance with the zeitgeist.
While some audiences might balk at the three-and-a-half-hour running time, others will find in it the space needed to fully inhabit the world Corbet has constructed. The film’s intermission, a rarity in modern mainstream cinema, nods to the grand storytelling traditions of mid-20th-century epics — works like Lawrence of Arabia or Ben-Hur — while also acknowledging that László’s story needs room to breathe across multiple countries, time periods, and emotional registers.
Critics have praised Corbet’s directorial style for balancing the film’s epic sweep with moments of striking intimacy: the hushed confessions between lovers, the telling silences that punctuate László’s creative process, the domestic scenes that reveal the comfort he tries to build for his wife and family, contrasted against the steely-eyed focus of Harrison Van Buren and his coterie. These quieter character moments gain added weight in the second half, as the specter of personal compromise grows larger and László’s restlessness becomes more evident.
For viewers interested in history, The Brutalist offers a glimpse into how architectural movements from Europe transplanted themselves into the American landscape. For those intrigued by character studies, the film provides a nuanced portrayal of a survivor struggling between moral integrity and pragmatic ambition. And for audiences simply seeking an immersive cinematic experience, it delivers sumptuous visuals, from Pennsylvania’s historical architecture to the sublime starkness of Carrara’s marble quarries.
In the end, the film’s central question lingers: can an artist, displaced by history’s brutality, truly find solace and identity in a land of commercial wealth, or does the assimilation process invariably erode the very qualities that made the artist’s voice unique? Corbet, while respecting the viewer’s intelligence, refrains from giving a definitive answer. Instead, he provides a deeply felt, visually arresting, and thematically rich tableau, in which survival, ambition, artistry, and compromise merge into a single, haunting saga.
The Brutalist is not a film that offers quick gratification. It demands time and patience from its audience, rewarding them with a dense tapestry of ideas, emotions, and historical reflections. Whether one engages with the film as a portrait of post-war immigration, a statement on the vulnerabilities of artistic creation under capitalism, or an introspective look at the cost of personal ambition, it’s difficult to deny the power of Corbet’s vision. In a cinematic landscape often dominated by formulaic narratives, The Brutalist stands as a testament to the enduring power of epic storytelling — storytelling that delves into the messy intersections of survival and creation, that refuses to paint its characters as purely virtuous, and that ultimately leaves the audience reflecting on their own lives and the compromises they might make, or have already made, in order to succeed.
Just as László’s architectural designs suggest a blend of functional pragmatism and high modernist ideals, The Brutalist merges historical detail with deeply personal drama, bridging the gap between the grand sweep of mid-century modernism and the individual heartbreaks that so often accompany reinvention. By the time the credits roll, one can’t help but marvel at the sheer scope of human ambition — and the quiet losses it so frequently entails.