Brady Corbet’s The Brutalist serves as a vast, ambitious contemplation of the American dream — highlighting both its allure and its dangers. Stretching across decades, this post-World War II immigrant tale is as meticulously designed as the architectural wonders of its main character. With its nuanced storytelling and profound emotional resonance, the film stands out as a rare cinematic triumph that strikes a balance between classical and contemporary.

Central to this three-and-a-half-hour opus is László Tóth (Adrien Brody), a fictional Jewish Hungarian architect and Holocaust survivor who seeks a fresh start in America. His journey is filled with struggle and optimism, as he confronts a nation that provides promise yet requires conformity. The film’s grand scope and ambition have sparked comparisons to The Godfather Part II and Once Upon a Time in America — and justifiably so. Similar to those masterpieces, The Brutalist delves into the immigrant experience with operatic fervor and profound moral intricacy.

The narrative kicks off in 1947, with László arriving at Ellis Island, distanced from his wife Erzsébet (Felicity Jones) and niece Zsófia (Raffey Cassidy), who are still ensnared in Soviet-controlled Hungary. Welcomed by his cousin Attila (Alessandro Nivola) in Philadelphia, László starts earning a living in a furniture store, subtly sketching Modernist creations that quickly attract the interest of the affluent Van Buren family. This association — especially with the domineering patriarch Harrison Lee (Guy Pearce) and his scheming son Harry (Joe Alwyn) — becomes pivotal to László’s ascent and ultimate disintegration.

The Brutalist unfolds in a manner akin to a novel, occasionally taking on an epistolary style through letters exchanged between László and Erzsébet. It is a deeply literary film, yet it pulses with dynamic cinematic vitality. Corbet and co-writer Mona Fastvold investigate how László’s artistic aspirations intertwine with his yearning for connection and belonging. Money remains both a remedy and a corrupting influence — though the film refrains from simplistic moral narratives.

Even as László’s architectural aspirations stay true, the environment around him evolves. An extravagant party scene at the Van Buren estate, captured in slow motion, illustrates the alluring appeal of wealth without directly depicting László’s response to it. Instead, his metamorphosis is understated, internal — a man torn between his ideals and the compromises imposed by American capitalism.

The film also probes the intricacies of postwar Jewish identity. László’s cousin has converted to Catholicism and altered his name to fit in. The announcement of Israel’s establishment elicits mixed feelings among Jewish figures, including László, who must grapple with the choice between a homeland built on exile or a life of spiritual decline in the U.S. The film does not provide straightforward resolutions, but rather lays bare these predicaments with poignant clarity.

“What does strength mean?” becomes a key inquiry — regarding architecture, identity, and survival. László’s creations are audacious and steadfast, yet his personal existence is characterized by compromise and suffering. He is perpetually an outsider, whether due to his heritage, accent, or ideals. The film’s examination of strength — be it physical, emotional, or ideological — contemplates both the toll of endurance and the desire to create.

Adrien Brody delivers a career-defining performance, encapsulating both sensitivity and quiet rebellion. His depiction of László is colored by personal narrative — his mother was a Hungarian Jew who escaped her homeland — and his body language and speech embody a man consistently out of sync. Guy Pearce is chillingly effective as Harrison, portraying the smug privilege of old-money America with a superficial charm that barely masks his cruelty.

Visually, The Brutalist is a spectacle. Filmed on VistaVision and shown in 70mm at its Venice debut, the movie possesses a tactile, immersive quality. Cinematographer Lol Crawley employs deep shadows and rich tones to invoke the splendor of classic cinema while embracing the flaws of vintage lenses. The outcome is a film that seems suspended between epochs — a specter of the past and a reflection of the present.

Corbet’s direction is rich in cinematic tradition. The film draws from a plethora of influences: the grand compositions of classic Hollywood, the jump cuts of the French New Wave, the montage styles of Soviet film, and even the surrealism of David Lynch. These varied approaches somehow unite, crafting a rich, engaging experience that mirrors the film’s themes of memory, identity, and artistic heritage.

The Brutalist also engages in a captivating conversation with Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead. Much like Rand’s protagonist Howard Roark, László is an unyielding architect whose modernist perspective contests convention. However, where Rand’s ideology applauds individualism and dismisses history, Corbet