More than any document or innovation, America’s greatest achievement is the myth of The American Dream. Since its induction, the belief that any immigrant can come to The United States and make a name for himself has been the greatest selling point for the 50 states. Somewhere between the Atlantic and Pacific Ocean, you’ll find your own piece of prosperity. The story from there has been altered based on the narrator, though they all share the same aspirations of following their dream, to experience a freedom that may not be offered in their homeland. To millions internationally America, even in its shortcomings, is among the greatest ideas ever conceived.
At the start of Brady Corbet’s towering epic The Brutalist (2024), László Tóth (Adrien Brody) emerges from the hull of a ship amid other passengers. The suffocating sounds of machinery disappear as Daniel Blumberg’s score soars with a sense of fresh air and discovery. Smacking his friend on the shoulder, László takes his first glimpse of America through one of the most symbolic sights imaginable. From a boat approaching Ellis Island, he sees The Statue of Liberty towering over him. Even in a film that is quick to incorporate archival footage highlighting human innovation, Corbet doesn’t frame this sigh of relief with the postcard perfection. Instead he paints Lady Liberty from László’s perspective as it wavers upside down at irregular angles. Despite being one of the most documented statues in American history, this moment reeks of disorientation, as if the statue is at risk of crushing the immigrants under her shoe. It’s not designed as a cynical moment, and yet the foreboding nature feels like a warning within the celebration. László doesn’t know what he’s in for.
Then again, nothing can be as bad as what came before. Throughout the first act, László reveals that he’s a Hungarian Jew who defected from his homeland in 1947 following the war. He has a wife and child back home but, due to complications, is unable to bring them along. The section labeled “The Enigma of Arrival” is a solitary journey from the bottom where he attempts to fill his life with any satisfaction. He has sex with prostitutes. He becomes an addict who can’t go a scene without popping a cigarette from the pack. Like most immigrants, his belief is that hard work will get him ahead and that begging is frowned upon.
The fallacy doesn’t take long to settle in. Corbet’s world in the first half hour is filled with other parties for whom The American Dream should ideally help. László wanders the streets of Pennsylvania encountering sex workers, racial minorities, the destitute, addicts, homosexuals, women, and the disabled. They’re the ones who the higher ups point at in hopes of getting work done and not complaining. While the backbreaking and sometimes humiliating labor may be seen as abusive, it’s accepted as reality because, as László would allude, work is work. Everything is building to a greater picture. The only difference is that in a land praised for its individuality, it’s also about unifying with the powers that be.
The slow unraveling of László starts innocently enough. As he starts his job at a furniture business, he reveals his gift for architecture and complementary aesthetic. Having attended academia in Hungary, he suggests that it’s a passion symbolic of the optimistic light within his traumatic experiences. While his survival in America may be less fraught on the surface, he becomes surprised by the news that a colleague has changed their surname to the more Anglicized “Miller.” Given racial similarities to their clients, it’s seen as a chance to assimilate to their values and climb the social ladder. From there the pride of vision clashes with the tragedy of misrepresentation, corroding even as László attempts to be true to his Jewish roots.
Few performances in 2024 have captured the emotional essence of self-sacrifice quite like Brody’s weary interpretation. He portrays László as a man who slowly becomes enraptured by his demons. Despite the enthusiasm with which he speaks to his coworkers, there is a void to his personality. He comes across as a man who is far from the goal he wanted, at times uncertain but trustworthy. Despite Corbet and co-write Mona Fastvold’s excellently detailed screenplay, László remains amorphous, often observing his situation and questioning his place within it. The cigarettes designed to calm his nerves slowly turn on him, replaced with the exhaustion of compromises that robs him of a larger purpose. He is an architect. The film goes so far as to praise him with portfolios dedicated to his brutalist style. And yet he’s never given the chance to appreciate his own work. If anything, the innocence fades as darkness overwhelms the nature by which his grand achievement – The Van Buren Community Center – comes into existence.
At the center of the mishigas is Harrison Van Buren (Guy Pearce). He is a man so invoking of The American Dream that his name alluded to THREE former presidents. To László, he is everything that his immigration has been for. The access to breathtaking architecture is complimented by visits to fancy ballrooms where he sips from crystalized glasses and talks with men who gawk with curiosity. Like most immigrants, László’s purpose among this community is to present his story of The American Dream that is in itself sprawling in ways that could’ve expanded the film another 80 minutes with a just as emotionally searing prologue. Instead it’s the catalyst for change and search for hope. He sees Harrison as a man with family and opportunities, beloved by his community for being an ideas man. The irony is that for a man so accomplished, the best ideas he ever had was who he chose to hire under him.
Pearce serves as the perfect foil to Brody as the tapestry slowly loses its luster. The jovial smile mixed with his ability to rationalize every step of his process no matter how irrational makes him an attractive figure. He’s the cautious type who never had to worry about where his next job was coming from because, for many, he was the one assigning them. Pearce has rarely been better than when he leans into the pseudo-comic tendencies of his tycoon that is nice enough to make the viewer think he’s pure while hiding his own sinister truths. Not since Daniel Plainview has there been an American character so methodical in their corruption. While it may be hidden in the ambiguous history of The Van Buren Community Center, the audience gets to see the trust slowly erode. While László never lost his surname, there’s other aspects of his identity that will be lost by the end. The question isn’t so much what either man did behind the scenes but as to who deserves the authorship and legacy.
It's clear that Corbet and Fastvold’s take is more sympathetic to the worker. As one watches The Brutalist, one can’t help but think of the thousands (if not more) who worked under capitalist icons of the early 20th century that are now forgotten to time. They’re the ones with their names on the building, who are considered the pioneers of innovation. And for what… selfishly wanting a building that makes the world think of them. While László has his own version, it’s less a testament to greed and more endurance. His style embraces minimalism and nature, where the greater awe is in how the person interprets their time within the room. Comparatively, Harrison is overcompensating, wanting to turn the community center into a hybrid of everything from religion to recreational activities. Predictably, László concedes for the sake of not being fired. While Corbet populates the frame with recurring characters, most of the workers outside of László remain unknown. They have no arc because, like most immigrants, their story of prosperity will come at the expense of the elite who makes or breaks whether they’ll even be paid.
Despite most of the story centering around the construction of one building, The Brutalist embodies a larger conversation about America. There is this push to make a name for oneself and add it to the long list of success stories. Corbet ends up asking what the ultimate sacrifice will be. The American Dream is a myth, and one that is thrilling to debunk. Even then it will leave you at odds with yourself, struggling to hold true to values and family as the limits of productivity find their breaking points. Brody’s performance never truly crumbles into an expected mental breakdown, but there are cracks forming on his face from scene to scene. The passion that came with staring up at Lady Liberty now feels like distant memory. He knows the secrets that came to making the community center. Everything feels so robbed of its innocence that one has to wonder why they’d embark on the journey in the first place.
What makes the film even more perplexing is that amid this journey is a glimmering hope of optimism. László is the anomaly. He makes a name for himself. He doesn’t lose the surname Tóth. He holds power over his own project and even gets to see his family. Harrison teases the joy that being American can give if he stays on the straight and narrow all while laughing from his mansion. However, one has to wonder what the limits of disillusionment are. Does having a comfortable living quarters forgive the other miseries bestowed upon his family? Maybe Corbet and Fasvoldt’s vision is, like the brutalist style, impenetrable to easy interpretation. Is László a tragic figure, or is his story the height of the average American Dream? It’s a testament to Brody’s performance that his withdrawn nature hides the full answer, as if the immigrant cannot comment on his own suffering. He moves forward, believing that eventually better things will come.
For a film that clocks in over 3.5 hours, it’s amazing how intimately every scene is shot. László’s interiority is full of suffocating quarters that show the practicality of living small. He’s even introduced in some scenes boxed into small quarters that don’t allow for escape. Contrasting that with the expansiveness of Harrison’s every movement, it’s easy to see what László sees in America. Much like glancing at The Statue of Liberty, it’s the room to breathe and see the world anew. The issue is that it’s all from below, where one wrong step could have him crushed. Somewhere amid the dingy cityscapes is a man wanting peace. Unfortunately, the only way to achieve that in cramped spaces is to feel smaller, less attached to his environment until he’s closer to cellophane. To have that clash with Corbet’s continually growing visual landscapes is a sight to behold, especially as the beauty clashes with the surreal, eventually landing on a great big question mark for those tired of playing the game for little show.
Within its fictitious packaging, The Brutalist becomes one of the most honest portrayals of America. For millions, they start the same way with a dream that is perfectly encapsulated in an origin story. They all funnel through Ellis Island, receiving their first glimpses of a better life. They see the ads presenting ideas of what the country could be for them. The architecture encourages one to look up in awe at human innovation. However, the real question is what the greater legacy of this country should be. Is it one designed to recognize László or Harrison? Outside of personal families, it’s unlikely that America will ever fully be honest with how it got where it is. A plaque will suggest it was all the financier’s doing when he didn’t lift a single steel beam. Who has built this country into the grand vision it currently sits as? Like the best of cinema, The Brutalist exists somewhere between predictable condemnation and the caveat of gratitude. This isn’t a story about dreams being crushed. If anything, it’s about the compromise and self-sacrifice to get them made. The better question is can László live with knowing what was taken away from him to achieve such a masterpiece.
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