Brady Corbet’s The Brutalist is a cinematic tour de force that intertwines the deeply personal with the monumental. Set against the backdrop of post-World War II America, the film follows Hungarian-Jewish architect László Toth as he attempts to build a future free from the shadow of his past. With a narrative spanning three decades, The Brutalist delves into themes of trauma, art, power, and identity, offering mere exploration of what it means to survive and tasked to create structure in a world contaminated with systemic brutality. Here, we scrutinise the film through five obvious angles.
Trauma as Part of Vision, yet Vision is Skewed as Prison
László Toth’s architectural brilliance is undeniably shaped by his experiences as a Holocaust survivor. His trauma becomes both the wellspring of his vision and the chains that bind him. The ghetto-like structure he designs for his ultimate masterpiece is more than a deliberate artistic choice; it is an unintentional echo of the confinement and dehumanisation he endured. While his benefactor – a power-hungry patron played by Guy Pearce – may have directed certain aspects of the design, the oppressive aesthetic feels deeply rooted in László’s subconscious. The film brilliantly interrogates whether art born of suffering can ever truly transcend it. László’s creation is monumental, yet hauntingly sterile, embodying both his genius and his inability to escape the horrors of his past. This duality – vision as both liberation and prison – underscores the tragic irony of László’s journey. His trauma enables him to envision a future immune to such atrocities, but it also compromises his ability to lead that vision with clarity and strength.
The Architecture of Pain
Brutalism as an architectural style is defined by its stark, raw aesthetic – a reflection of resilience, utility, and unflinching honesty. In The Brutalist, this aesthetic takes on a deeply symbolic role, mirroring the emotional and psychological weight of László’s story. The ghetto-like structure he designs serves as a visceral representation of pain and survival. Its concrete façade evokes both confinement and durability, as if the building itself is a monument to suffering. Yet, it also feels lifeless, devoid of warmth or humanity. This contradiction captures the essence of the film: the tension between the need to forget and the desire to move forward. Corbet masterfully uses architecture theme as a narrative device, showing how trauma shapes not only the artist but the creation itself. The building becomes a character in its own right – a silent witness to László’s inner turmoil and the larger societal forces at play.
Inner Power and Resilience: The Truth vs. False Beliefs
One of the film’s most profound themes is the exploration of inner power – what it truly means and how it is often misconstrued. László, for all his brilliance, depicted as lack the resilience needed to wield his vision effectively. His survival of the Holocaust has left him emotionally fragile, overly dependent on external support – first from his wife, Erzsébet, and later from his manipulative patron. This fragility highlights a central truth: inner power is not simply the endurance of suffering but the ability to inner-transform it into strength and personal power. László’s inability to confront his past – and the toxic dynamics of his present – renders him vulnerable to more exploitation. His retreat into passivity after being raped by his boss is a devastating turning point, underscoring the consequences of unresolved trauma, and the ability to deal with it. László’s retreat also symbolizes his deeper inability to confront the truth of his circumstances- both external and internal. To transform trauma into strength requires not only endurance but also the courage to face the pain head-on. László’s failure to address his dependency on others and the exploitation he endures leaves him emotionally paralysed, ultimately undermining his ability to channel his brilliance into a resilient legacy. The Brutalist underscores the importance of confronting the truth as a cornerstone of genuine resilience and progress.
The film challenges the notion that suffering inherently leads to strength. Instead, it posits that true resilience requires self-awareness, agency, and the capacity to rise above external manipulation. László’s failure to embody these qualities ultimately undermines his ability to lead his vision into fruition.
Masculinity, Androgyny, and the Fragility of Assumed Power
László’s character is defined by a delicate, subtext, androgyny that sets him apart from traditional depictions of male architects. His soft-spoken demeanour and introspective nature contrast sharply with the hyper-masculine world of power and ambition he inhabits, let alone the “brutalism” architecture he was commissioned to develop. This duality is ironically both a strength and a weakness. The film’s most unsettling scene – László’s intoxicated rape scene by his boss – serves as a brutal commentary on the fragility of assumed power. László’s androgyny, while a symbol of his visionary perspective and genius, becomes a target for “bullying” in a world that equates masculinity with dominance. His subsequent withdrawal reflects the destructive impact of such an assault, both on his sense of self and his ability to assert his vision. By juxtaposing László’s androgyny with the hyper-masculine aggression of his boss, The Brutalist challenges traditional notions of power. It suggests that true strength lies not in dominance but in the balance of vision and resilience- a balance László inadvertently struggles to achieve.
The Irony of Power Versus Art
At its core, The Brutalist is a meditation on the fraught relationship between power and art. László’s genius is undeniable, yet his seemingly over-dependence on his patron corrupts his vision. Guy Pearce’s character embodies the toxic dynamic of power co-opting creativity for its own ends. His funding of László’s work is less an act of support than a means of imposing control and power. This irony is most evident in the final structure – a masterpiece tainted by the patron’s agenda. What could have been a symbol of resilience and hope becomes a monument to systemic brutality. This outcome is rooted in László’s unwillingness – or inability – to confront the truth of his relationship with his patron. By failing to challenge the corruptive influence of power, he inadvertently allows it to seep into his art, tainting what should have been a monument of liberation. The film highlights that without confronting uncomfortable truths, even the most visionary creations can become hollow reflections of systemic exploitation. The film leaves us questioning whether art can ever be free from the influence of those who fund it.
Whether enjoyable or intimidating, The Brutalist is a haunting exploration of trauma, art, and power that lingers long after the credits roll. Brady Corbet masterfully weaves these themes into a narrative that is as visually arresting as it is emotionally profound. Through László Toth, the film examines the duality of vision and fragility, offering a powerful reminder that true strength lies in the balance of inner resilience and external ambition. It captured the essence of what The Brutalist inadvertently highlights: vision without genuine features and functionality is never going to be enough. László is a deeply flawed genius, and his inability to wield his brilliance effectively is why his masterpiece ultimately becomes tainted. In a way, this mirrors our ongoing discussion about ideal future beings and idealised leaders – progress demands more than just vision; it demands inner power, matter-of-fact structure, the ability to turn and separate trauma into inner power, resilience, and the capacity to finally execute.
In a year where films like Emilia Pérez and Conclave have also explored themes of transformation and power, The Brutalist stands out for its stark honesty and unflinching portrayal of the human struggle of genius. It is a cautionary tale and a masterpiece, one that demands to be seen, felt, and pondered. Most certainly a contender to be the best film winner across the board, if this year’s awards seasons are brave enough to admit the truth of what real greatness actually takes.
