No Time For Modesty
The Brutalist comes off as self-absorbed and ostentatious at times. But can you blame it?
To speak on The Brutalist is to delve into a rather vast conversation that hopefully sparks the same intellectual stimulation that invigorates the opulent Harrison Lee Van Buren. A single viewing does not encompass the scale of a three-and-a-half-hour odyssey depicting the highs and lows of the immigrant experience while pursuing the American Dream. That’s without mentioning the personal allegory of the artist vs. the patron that permeates into a “film about filmmaking,” according to director Brady Corbet.
There’s a fog-like heaviness post-Brutalist. If it isn’t apparent, I hold quite a fondness for what looks to be a defining addition to the modern scope of film. Perhaps that fondness was already established before stepping into the Philadelphia Film Society Center packed to the brim. Or when Corbet and co. would go on to receive a trio of Golden Globes. Or when the film’s trailer utilized the pull quote “monumental,” a word uttered by an array of publications to describe the next American epic. That hype and fondness was met with an underlying skepticism. The next Godfather? Maybe it’s time to pump the brakes.
Yet, upon walking out of the Film Society Center, the heaviness began to billow. The balance between fondness and skepticism favored the former. The Brutalist, a project of passion years in the making, is a feat that makes fans proud to enjoy film as a whole. The descent into a destructive entity bred on hate features a zenith of triumph not often felt on screen, making the fall even more devastating, a sickly feeling upon seeing the credits begin to crawl.
There’s a sentimental atmosphere draped around The Brutalist that screams self-absorbed. But can you blame it? Shot entirely on the obsolete VistaVision film stock for under $10 million in 31 days warrants the bravado it emanates. Accomplishing any film under these circumstances is impressive, but reviving a lost medium to craft a picturesque project only adds to the film’s boastful nature. Seeing it in 35mm furthered that “lived-in” feel, with crackles and burns providing an antique motif akin to the films your parents would show you.
While we can give credit to and even applaud a diligent group for working under extreme time and financial restrictions, substance paves the way to prestige. And The Brutalist is more than a feel-good story of a director accomplishing a feverous dream while pushing for final cut. Broken up into two parts, bookended by an overture and an epilogue, The Brutalist follows Laszlo Toth, a Hungarian-Jewish architect who flees post-war Europe for a land of opportunity. Toth, portrayed masterfully by a somber, down-on-his-luck Adrian Brody, is renowned for his brutalist style that stands strong amidst conflict. A man lost in a foreign land sees his fortune turn when he is enlisted by the aforementioned Van Buren in what marks the peak of Guy Pearce’s underappreciated career. Van Buren tasks Laszlo with an ambitious project that pushes the architect and his wife, Erzsebet, in a defining portrayal of emotional and kinetic range from Felicity Jones to unimaginable lengths in a country where the best you’ll get is tolerance.
No reinvention of the wheel here, but Corbet is Laszlo and vice versa. The ambitious brutalist architecture is the vessel for what it means to make a film. Van Buren, the conniving capitalist, is greed incarnate. Their dynamic is entirely based on monetary value. To Van Buren, art is status, a way to flaunt wealth and pedigree. He opens his home to Laszlo, making commendations for him and his family, all while making back-handed comments about the visionary’s background. The slew of comments are prevalent throughout the film, with double entendres littered about. One in particular is uttered by Van Buren’s son, Harry Lee. Following an uncomfortable conversation with Laszlo regarding the project, Harry Lee stops in their tracks to tell Laszlo, “We tolerate you.” Sure, it could just reference his time spent in the Van Buren guest home. But with such masked vitriol and contempt, the tolerance stems from more than just an unwanted house guest.
The disillusionment of the American Dream is not a new phenomenon in art. But when seen through the lens of the parasitic relationship between the artist and the patron, the inevitable disappointment is worth it momentarily. For many, the second act of The Brutalist doesn’t carry the same magnitude as the first. And it shouldn’t. The aforementioned rise is such a captivating and celebratory story you want to continue the ascent. But The Brutalist is based in reality, with the steep descent promoting the unfortunate experience of immigrants. The second half plays into the perpetuating cycle of ushering out those of different backgrounds to another place just for the inescapable plight of marginalized groups to carry on.
Much like Goodfellas, there’s a sickness that plagues you upon reaching the epilogue. How can such a glorious rising first half create a sense of dread so easily? And why? For many, it took time for Scorsese’s magnum opus to resonate beyond the death of Billy Bats. Given the scope of The Brutalist, you’d imagine a grandiose end to an epic of this proportions. And to the chagrin of audience members, I don’t blame them. To reiterate the prior point, this is a story based in reality. A romantic in pursuit of opportunity is forced to concede his visions due to budget constraints and forced perspectives going against his own. None of this makes for a happily ever after but rather an everyday existence for an auteur in a profit-driven landscape.
The Brutalist commands respect. The moment Daniel Blumberg’s larger-than-life brass bellows as Laszlo rises from the hull of a boat, laying his eyes on the Statue of Liberty, you pay attention. And you refuse to look away. Even in the film’s most haunting, demented scenes, you don’t dare let your eyes wander, for its grandeur is as captivating as it is challenging.
In cliche fashion, I recognize this will not be everyone’s cup of tea. I may have lost you with the runtime alone. However, experiencing this in a packed theater cultivates hope for the future of cinema. To those who complain of a lack of originality in Hollywood, look upon Corbet, Eastwood, Guadagnino, Shyamalan, and Glass. No matter the success and quality, the need to champion groundbreaking directors is as integral as ever, for The Brutalist reminds us that even when our visions are corrupted by avarice and position, artists find a way to leave their mark in a capitalistic system.