The Brutalist (2024): A journey through the contradictions of idealistic dreams and the brutal realities of ambition.

Last week, I went with some friends to see The Brutalist in 70mm at the Park Theatre in Canada, and it was an experience like no other. I feel I must share it with you.

We are all Mexican and have been living outside our country for not so long. Before the film started, we talked about our upcoming projects, dreams, and where we stood. How far we had come. Doubts, desires, and commitments regarding the present and the future.

But at that moment, in the present, the three of us were seated, watching The Brutalist (2024), a film I had heard wonders about.

I went to the cinema without knowing much about the plot—only that it was long, had won several Golden Globes, and was being compared to postmodern, epic, and dark films like There Will Be Blood (2007).

A Film That Won’t Leave My Mind

After finishing The Brutalist, my first reaction was to compare it to The Zone of Interest (2023), another great film with a similar subtext, where the rupture of time plays a crucial role in the storytelling and where cinema (art) and audience take a deeply impactful, even terrifying turn. However, after reflecting more on Corbet’s film, there’s something about The Brutalist that feels extraordinarily unique and hasn’t stopped swirling in my mind.

The film is structured in two parts, with a 15-minute intermission and an epilogue, making up 3 hours and 35 minutes of a story that spans four decades of a life.

It follows László Tóth, a Hungarian Jewish architect who emigrates to the United States—the so-called land of opportunity—shortly after World War II in 1945, seeking the longed-for American Dream.

An Opening That Chills You to the Core

The first thing I must talk about is the opening sequence and those opening credits. I’m counting the days until I can experience that sequence again in a theater because, my goodness.

What Brady Corbet and Lol Crawley do with the camera, paired with Daniel Blumberg’s chaotic and rising soundtrack, expresses in such a contradictory way—both exhilarating and unnerving—the feeling of letting go. The adrenaline, the fear, the thrill of change. The search for something bigger, more intense, more alive.

A series of images and sounds where fear whispers warnings, but excitement screams louder.

After a long shot where the camera never stops moving and we can barely see, the first fully visible image Corbet gives us is that of the symbol of freedom—a towering statue we all know—but from a completely reversed perspective. We reach the climax of the scene, and it seems like the moment should end, but the camera continues at the same broken rhythm while the jubilant cries of our protagonist and of all the newcomers echo in the background.

An opening sequence that encapsulates the film’s tone and emotions for the next three and a half hours. We’re about to witness ambition’s highs, the pursuit of a dream, and its ripple effect on the world over time.

Cinema as a Reflection of the World

There has always been debate about how much cinema reflects the social and historical processes of our society. Here, Corbet poses a question many have asked: What is hidden behind the great works presented to us as extraordinary? What lies beyond the art, the imposing monuments, and the promise of a successful and prosper nation?

Corbet doesn’t offer easy answers, but throughout László’s journey, the biggest human vices, emotions, and behaviours are deeply explored, showing how they are shaped by the era we live in.

The first part, beyond the usual ups and downs and harsh realities, carries an overwhelming and sublime feeling of ascent. It’s very seductive, almost sexual in its intensity—not only reflected in sound and image but also in all the performances specially Adrien Brody’s and Guy Pierce magnificent performances in their search of power and greatness.

But just when everything seems to be an overwhelming and dazzling climb, the intermission begins. A clever and unexpected break that pulls you out of the dream Brody’s character is immersed in. At that point, it’s inevitable to ask: after this, things can’t keep escalating like this… can they?

Disillusionment: When the Dream Shatters

As we enter the second half, Corbet drops the curtain and reveals the obvious: acceptance is conditional, depending on who holds the power. Capitalism’s own nature shook the idea of a shared prosperity. By the end of modernity, after the 1940s and entering the 1960s—both in the film and in reality—it became clear that the American Dream was always just that: a dream.

The second half of the film is nothing more than the inevitable consequence of an unbridled and self-destructive rise. It sounds contradictory but I think contradiction is the essence of this film. I loved the metaphor of László’s lighter and how it visually represents this idea.

We are also introduced to László’s family. Family is often known to be the foundation of our lives, the source of strength in our most difficult moments. Ironically, in László’s life, the arrival of his family in America translates into problems, further exposing the contradictory and complex nature of humanity.

The film places particular emphasis on the relationship with his wife Erzebeth, played brilliantly by Felicity Jones. She suffers from a bone disease that causes her significant pain throughout the film. Their relationship is monotonous, and it’s clear that the attraction has faded; yet, there remains a love between them that is difficult to define. In many moments, their relationship gives us glimpses of hope in a world that feels that keeps advancing and doesn’t care about our conditions.

Erzebeth is a reminder that even through the feeling of suffering it may always prevails the feeling of hope. She in a way represents that feeling of fighting even when it’s obvious that things are not alright and will never be.

The Epilogue: A Monumental Contradictory Ending

After the darker and more pessimistic second half, we reach the epilogue. Here, we are fully transported to another era. I won’t reveal much, because this final part perfectly closes the entire gigantic odyssey of a film.

Amid all of László’s shaky life, in the end, he is rewarded. This reward doesn’t feel bright at all—not even bittersweet. If anything, it leans much more toward tragedy, though ironically, even with that sense of grandeur and ascent. Mostly because of what we witnessed a scene ago. It’s sup to be triumphant but we know it isn't exactly.

It’s striking how Corbet blends all these feelings in a scene that closes one of the most colossal films I’ve ever seen, which, ironically, was made on a minimal budget by industry standards.

A Reflection on Our Own Ambition

The Brutalist becomes a reflection on ambition and the evil that arises from the pursuit of an ideal world. It resonates perfectly with what’s happening in our world today—politically, socially, and even artistically—not just inviting but dragging you into a deep reflection on the world we live in, its vices, and our own aspirations.

This is cinema at its purest. A film that, beyond its visual and narrative impact, makes you ask yourself something much more personal: Why are you standing where you are at this very moment?

In the end, The Brutalist is not just the story of a man and his vices, but a representation of the relentless pursuit of something bigger, brighter—one that ultimately reveals the weight of that ambition. It is, without a doubt, a film for discussion, for analysis, and for feeling deep down, because, like few others, it lays the hardest questions of our existence on the table.