Best Actor for Adrien Brody? The Brutalist Only Takes Half the Credit

Since its release, The Brutalist has garnered high praise from critics and earned numerous awards at film festivals. Yet for devoted Adrien Brody fans, their joy comes with a tinge of melancholy. While The Brutalist marks another milestone in Brody's career, comparing it to his earlier work, Detachment, reveals that something essential is missing from this latest achievement.

Hello Peliplaters!

Which movie first made you appreciate Adrien Brody as an actor?

For me, it was Detachment. While I consider it an entry-level film in my "Getting to Know Adrien Brody" list, I rarely discuss it in casual conversations because of its heavy themes. If Dead Poets Society shows us the noble and idealistic side of teaching, Detachment reveals its raw, human complexity. In this film, Brody portrays a substitute teacher called Henry Barthes, who's assigned to the most unruly and lowest-performing class at a community school. While other teachers struggle with despair that pervades both the classrooms and staffroom, Henry sees things differently. He believes the students' rebelliousness can be reformed. In his view, they've merely misdirected their energy—and as their teacher, his role is to guide them towards positive change and reinforce their progress.

Everyone hopes to meet a teacher like Henry. What drives his extraordinary dedication? As a substitute teacher who'll leave at the end of the semester, he could simply maintain order and avoid problems like most stand-ins do. Instead, Henry goes far beyond his duties and strives to create lasting positive changes for his students. His short tenure seems to fuel rather than diminish his commitment. Through this strange dedication, Detachment reveals Henry's complex inner world. His personal life is in turmoil—his grandfather suffers from dementia, and he still carries the trauma of his mother's suicide. Teaching isn't just his passion; it's his lifeline. By helping these struggling students, he finds a path to his own redemption. This narrative presents a unique challenge for actors as it demands that they explore Henry's dark side rather than bright side.

The darker aspects of humanity are rarely portrayed with empathy—emotions like sadness, pain, and anger, though natural, often make us uncomfortable, prompting us to intentionally run away from them. Brody's gift lies not just in his naturally melancholic brows and expressive eyes, but also in his ability to observe others with great attention and gentleness that draws us in.

Being blessed with a pair of expressive eyes is an aesthetic advantage, but without gentleness, they become mere ornaments on the face. What audiences truly cherish is not just Brody himself, but the world they discover through his observant gaze.

In Detachment, Brody's attention reaches beyond his students to Erica—a young prostitute seemingly disconnected from the world of education. She forcefully disrupts Henry's carefully structured daily routine and bridges the gap between his professional and personal lives. When Henry takes her in out of compassion, she reciprocates by gradually opening his guarded heart. The film's other elements serve primarily to illuminate Henry and Erica's complex relationship, as every interaction he has with others mirrors aspects of his connection with her. On a social level, Henry represents education and potential mobility; on a personal level, he remains haunted by his childhood trauma. While Erica might embrace his teachings, she can never truly be his student; she may understand his pain, yet she cannot forge a natural and intimate relationship with him. These inherent contradictions create profound psychological tensions, leading to Henry's struggles with emotional detachment and identity. He attends to Erica but cannot fully acknowledge her—reflecting the film's titular theme of detachment. Through this ambiguous dynamic, viewers discover poignant truths about everyday life that often go unnoticed.

The most compelling scene unfolds when Henry calls the child welfare workers to take Erica away. His internal conflict reaches its peak—he cares deeply about her reaction, yet he cannot face the harm he's about to inflict on her. As she begs him to reconsider his decision, his concern transforms into a paradoxical avoidance—though he acts for her benefit, his decision brutally severs their emotional bond. Did Henry do right or wrong? The audience has no time to ponder this question, as his detachment shifts our focus entirely to Erica. We witness, raw and unfiltered, her resentment, helplessness, and desperate pleas. When Erica sobs, "I love you, Henry. [...] Don't let them take me, please," we find ourselves asking alongside her: "Why can't people like Erica acquire love?" And since love is reciprocal, a deeper question emerges: "What has stripped people like Henry of their ability to love?"

Director Tony Kaye masterfully saved the answer to this question for the film's conclusion. Each viewer interprets it differently, and you're welcome to share your thoughts in the comments.

At this point, viewers who've seen The Brutalist will likely recognize the crucial element I've been describing—Brody's gentleness. The film leaves me with mixed feelings because while its first half truly shines, the latter half fails to maintain this brilliance.

In The Brutalist, Brody expresses this gentleness through his portrayal of László Tóth, a Hungarian-born Jewish architect who flees post-war Europe to rebuild his career in the United States. Many viewers are struck by his powerful performance as László, noting how it differs from his typically melancholic roles. His previous performances as a ruthless gangster in Peaky Blinders Season 4 and a calculating businessman in Succession Season 3 established his capacity for hardened characters. As László, he transforms this same intensity into something different—an unyielding, risk-taking strength.

An artist's power stems not only from the vitality of his works but also from the sum of his life experiences. Though the film's opening doesn't elaborate on László's encounters with oppression and injustice in Europe, his past finds profound expression when he transforms a lifeless study into an imaginative miniature library under pressure. In this imagery, he banishes darkness and chaos, creating light and order. His gesture of pulling a chair toward the center is gentle yet powerful. This gentleness, set against the room he created, transcends personal meaning to achieve universal significance—for this house belongs not just to him, nor merely to the wealthy owner who holds its deed. In subsequent scenes, when the surprised wealthy owner first rages at László, then apologizes after his design appears in the newspaper, viewers witness more than irony. They grasp the transcendent nature of architectural art—where worldly opinions scatter like the wind, while the architect's spirit stands as immovable as the stones that form the building.

Director Brady Corbet ambitiously structured the film in three parts, expanding both its length and emotional depth. However, the final result didn't fulfill its promise. Rather than building upon the first part's foundation, the second and third segments feel like problematic duplications. Corbet attempted to amplify the initial imagery through a grander vision—a mountaintop community center crowned with a church. While this concept works theoretically, the character development falters. In the second and third parts of the film, Brody's portrayal shifts jarringly from an active force to a passive observer.

László's character echoes Henry from Detachment. Like Henry's withdrawal from Erica, László retreats not only from his wife but eventually from nearly everyone around him. Corbet effectively illustrates capitalism's brutality through László's isolation. Harrison, his boss, inflicts both physical and psychological wounds on him by defiling his body and aspirations. While this pivotal moment commands attention, the narrative loses its way. Unlike Kaye, who created pathways for viewers to form their own interpretations, Corbet's artistic vision stalls at László's trauma. Instead of allowing László to reshape his own destiny, the story relegates this agency to secondary characters—his wife reveals Harrison's misdeeds while his niece celebrates his accomplishments.

A film's narrative may be tragic or filled with despair, but it must never capitulate hopelessness.

Some viewers might defend this narrative choice, arguing that László's helplessness better illustrates the trauma he's endured. But is he truly without agency? The puzzling aspect is that László not only fails to stand up for himself but misdirects his anger toward his colleagues and wife—the very people who care for him and support his career. This petty behavior completely contradicts the dignity and vision László demonstrated in the film's first part. Simply put, the László we initially met would never behave this way. While Corbet attempted to justify this transformation by inserting a several-year time gap between the second and third parts, this feels like a convenient shortcut rather than thoughtful character development.

Overall, The Brutalist's existing/possible Best Actor awards seems more a recognition of Brody's previous work than his latest performance.