While the backlash might be coming for The Brutalist the same way it’s come for Emilia Pérez (in the former’s case, from enraged architects), there’s no arguing that it’s got something to say. And in a grandiose form. Centered on Holocaust survivor and Hungarian immigrant László Tóth (Adrien Brody), Brady Corbet’s third directorial effort (and fourth feature serving as a screenwriter) is a clear nod to the brutalist architecture of Marcel Breuer. And yet, per the architects who took issue with the portrayal of the whole damn movie (from “the basic process of architecture itself” to “postwar immigration,” as The Guardian mentioned), it is an “insult” to the architect it is overtly based on, in addition to the brutalist movement.
In that same article from The Guardian, it is said that “Corbet consulted the architectural historian Jean-Louis Cohen [who died in 2023], the leading authority on the period, to try to find the tragic figure that he had in mind, but none came to Cohen’s mind because none existed.” So it goes that Corbet and his longtime partner in love and writing, Mona Fastvold, pivoted toward a “made-up” architect in the form of László Tóth (side note: Breuer’s nickname was Lajkó). Someone who could fit the bill for the persecution story they wanted to tell. And there’s not necessarily anything wrong with that—for God (or whoever) knows there was (and is) no shortage of immigrants coming from Europe that were treated in a “lesser than” manner by the “real” Americans (read: White Anglo-Saxon Protestants) whose “turf” they “infiltrated” (never mind that the WASPs infiltrated it first through their own genocide of Native Americans).
And when László “lands” in the U.S. via Ellis Island, it doesn’t take very long for him to understand that he is not seen as an “acceptable” American. Although he theoretically has the welcoming aura of his cousin, Attila (Alessandro Nivola, who, incidentally, had a Jewish grandmother that would become a refugee in America), the latter’s wife, Audrey (Emma Laird), is a shiksa Catholic who patently doesn’t “approve” of László. Oh she does her best to put on the polite airs of a “good Christian” woman at first, but it doesn’t take long for her to show her true colors. This achieved by telling Attila that László made an unwanted sexual advance. Unfortunately for László, Attila does not stand up for him, for he has become so brainwashed by the notion of “fitting into society” (he’s even called his furniture store Miller & Sons—no, he doesn’t have that gentile last name or any sons in real life) that he’ll do whatever his wife says to hold onto the image he’s tried so hard to curate for himself. That of “erased Jew.” In other words, the only kind of accepted Jew in postwar America.
But that’s not the kind of Jew that László is willing to be. Even if he might act obsequious enough for the “privilege” of Attila and Audrey “allowing” him to stay in what amounts to a supply closet in their store while instructing him that the bathroom he can use is, like, a fuckin’ schlep to get to and, oh, sure he’s “welcome” to join them for lunch on Sundays—if he wants to. Code for: please don’t come.
The odd sexual tension (filtered through “camaraderie”) between Attila and László is also a likely factor in compelling Audrey to want to get rid of him somehow. Hence, her little lie about László’s lechery. However, he might have even been able to withstand that accusation were it not for the fact that the first job he worked on with Attila was a colossal failure. That is, from the perspective of the unwitting client, Harrison Lee Van Buren (Guy Pearce). For it was his son, Harry (Joe Alwyn, in a role that likely makes Taylor Swift continue to have no qualms about their breakup), who commissioned the project of redesigning his father’s study into a library. Intended as a surprise birthday gift, the only surprise, ultimately, was given to László and Attila, who were ripped new assholes by Harrison when he showed up unexpectedly to the property with his dying mother. As Harrison later tells it to László, she died the same weekend. This being a key part of the reason for his ramped-up reaction…for, as the viewer will learn, he had an obviously unhealthily entwined dynamic with her.
And it’s a dynamic that László chooses to ignore as a red flag when Harrison takes a shine to becoming his patron. His biggest cheerleader—but, of course, also his biggest pimp. Milking him of his talent because he’s underlyingly envious of it, aware that there is no “artistry” to making money (regardless of what that twit, Andy Warhol, tried to say on that matter—that “business is the best art” [insert vomiting noises here]). This is perhaps why, in addition to telling a drugged-out (ergo, defenseless) László as he literally (instead of just metaphorically) butt fucks him, “You’re just a lady of the night,” he’s also telling it to himself. For Harrison, too, is a whore—for profit. So it is that the industrialist brutalizes the brutalist to compensate for his own self-hate.
No stranger to being exploited in the worst ways imaginable, it seemed, to László, at first, that there are worse things than being treated as a glorified “hired hand” in spite of Harrison’s insistence that he’s propping him up as the great architect he is. And was able to be back in Europe before the Hitler-backed “Final Solution” came to roost. Yes, a euphemism if ever there was one—but as most know by now, evasive language is a powerful tool in sidestepping any admission of evildoing. The same goes for Harry when, drunk and loose-lipped one day at the construction site where László is building the requested community center in honor of Harrison’s dead mother, he seethes, “We tolerate you.” Which sounds like what Bill Murray told Richard Dreyfuss on the set of What About Bob? (“Everyone hates you! You are tolerated!”). The unsaid part of that three-word insult being, “You—Jews—you—immigrants—are not one of us. And never will be.” And this has been the true story belying the shiny, happy narrative of the American dream since time immemorial.
Which is why, during a moment when the U.S. is itself going the “Final Solution” route (wielding deportation instead of genocide as its tactic—for now) with immigrants, The Brutalist is a timely reminder that history is doomed to repeat itself if not studied and learned from. Even though the architects who hate this movie would argue that Corbet and Fastvold didn’t do their own studying when it came to accurate depictions. But still, the message relayed is what gets across more than any historical/architectural faux pas.
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