Some films capture a moment in history; others transcend it, reaching for something timeless. Brady Corbet’s The Brutalist is one of the latter—a sprawling, deeply emotional epic that intertwines personal survival and creative ambition with the weight of 20th-century history. Co-written with his partner in life and art Mona Fastvold, Corbet’s third feature feels like an artifact from the past and a harbinger of cinema’s everlasting future, fusing the grandeur of David Lean with a contemporary approach. At 3 hours and 20 minutes, including a graceful intermission, it demands patience but, no, that makes it sound as if The Brutalist overstays its welcome in some way or imposes on its audience.  After seeing it, you’ll understand how that couldn’t be further from the truth. 

The Brutalist chronicles the journey of László Tóth, a Hungarian-Jewish architect and Holocaust survivor played with devastating precision by Oscar-winner Adrien Brody (See How They Run).  The narrative begins with his immigration to post-war America, where dreams of a fresh start are shadowed by prejudice and hardship. Landing in gritty, post-industrial Philadelphia, László takes refuge with his cousin (Alessandro Nivola, Kraven the Hunter), a fellow immigrant now settled with a furniture store, and an American wife (Emma Laird).  It’s a reprieve that soon gives way to his knotty relationship with the enigmatic industrialist Harrison Lee Van Buren, played with chilling magnetism by Guy Pearce (Lawless).

The Brutalist examines the tension between creation and destruction throughout its two parts (each is around 100 minutes). László’s architectural visions represent hope and renewal, yet his personal life is a patchwork of loss and resilience.  He has arrived in a new country, counting on building something magnificent from the raw materials of devastation.  His eventual reunion with his wife Erzsébet (Felicity Jones, On the Basis of Sex) is as bittersweet as it is inevitable, marked by tragedy and an unyielding will to move forward. Erzsébet’s physical frailty contrasts with her emotional strength, and Jones shapes her performance with a quiet intensity that matches Brody’s haunted presence. Together, they navigate a world that demands more from them than it offers, balancing ambition with survival in an America brimming with contradictions seeking to rebuild their shattered lives.

I’d say that Brody’s performance is a “once-in-a-lifetime” kind of situation, but his Best Actor Oscar for 2002’s The Pianist blows that theory out of the water.  It’s revelatory work, the kind you can only unpack after the fact because you’re so transfixed you can only see him as the character at the moment.  He transforms László into a figure of immense intricacy, embodying his past traumas and the determination to build something enduring even as his interior world threatens to crumble. Each gesture and glance carries unspoken pain, but there’s also a sense of defiance—a refusal to let history dictate a future he was promised could be different.

Pearce’s Van Buren serves as both ally and antagonist, a patron whose support is tinged with manipulation. Though their amity initially blooms, it begins to rot as hierarchy roles become ill-defined, making a vile, evil act the surest way to regain order.  All the way back to L.A. Confidential in 1997, Pearce has been delivering solid support to star players, but with The Brutalist, it’s justifiably his turn to find his way into the spotlight.  Only heard in the first part, Jones arrives after intermission and wastes no time asserting her authority and unleashing a powerhouse performance.  Unpredictable, unfaltering, and unable to stay silent to observed pain after all she’s been through, Erzsébet eloquently and relentlessly confronts hatred head-on.    

Though an epic film in scale, the cast is relatively compact, and Corbet assembles a striking set of players to enrich the movie further. Nivola and Laird set the perfect tone early on, demonstrating how careful László needs to be with his trust. Playing Van Buren’s twin children, Joe Alwyn (Harriet) exudes entitlement and menace as Harry, while Stacy Martin’s (The Night House) Maggie opts for a different path.   As Gordon, a man László meets in a breadline and stays loyal to for years, Isaach de Bankolé (2019’s Shaft) is a steadfast standout, as is Australian Jonathan Pryce (Titanic) donning a terrific Philadelphia accent to play the foreman of a project László’ is designing and continually butts heads with.  Raffey Cassidy (Tomorrowland) and Ariane Labed (Assassin’s Creed) portray Zsófia, László’s niece, at different stages of life, adding a generational perspective to the film’s exploration of enduring trauma.

For a film with a production budget reportedly just under $10 million, The Brutalist achieves an astonishing scope and depth, which only speaks higher to Corbet’s resourcefulness and artistic concept of this project.  Presented in VistaVision (a high-resolution 35mm widescreen process), the visuals are marvelous and, believe it or not based on the run time, edited by Dávid Jancsó to total perfection.  Lol Crawley’s cinematography captures the grandeur of László’s architectural dreams and the intimate moments that define his life. Judy Becker’s production design immerses viewers in post-war America with meticulous authenticity, while Daniel Blumberg’s clinking and clanking score of ghostly, minimalist machine-like melodies haunts the edges of each scene, impossible to shake off yet never overwhelming.

Corbet himself emerges as one of contemporary cinema’s most compelling voices. Known initially for his acting in indie films, with The Brutalist, he has completed a reinvention as a director with an audacious sense of scale and narrative that were only hinted at with his earlier works, The Childhood of a Leader and Vox Lux.  Blending historical context with personal storytelling that is emotionally grand but still intellectually resonant, The Brutalist feels like a culmination of his artistic evolution.

Watching the film for a second time recently, I started to see that what truly sets The Brutalist in a different arena is its refusal to compromise on any level. Its length, while daunting, is essential to the story it tells. Even as it sails by the three hour mark and while it has a well-timed intermission, the film’s runtime passes with surprising swiftness. Each segment moves with the momentum of much shorter work, a pacing miracle achieved because every scene serves multiple purposes—advancing the plot while deepening character relationships and exploring themes of artistic integrity, power dynamics, and the immigrant experience in post-war America.  The intermission isn’t just a nod to classic epics; it provides a moment to reflect, absorb the weight of what’s come before, and prepare for what’s ahead. Do stretch your legs and hit the restroom, but don’t ignore what’s onscreen, even the intermission ambiance has been considered.

The structure of The Brutalist, combined with Corbet’s fearless direction, positions the film as a bridge between old and new—honoring the traditions of cinema’s past while pushing its boundaries.  This is what cinema can be at its best: an art form that moves, challenges, and transforms us.  Like the modernist architecture it depicts, it’s a work that will be studied and celebrated for generations.  Breaking with convention to create something boldly original while remaining rooted in classical traditions that have defined the medium since its inception, The Brutalist takes its time but never wastes a moment.