When composer Daniel Blumberg’s chaotic, rousing overture signs off with a thundering fanfare introducing protagonist László Tóth to the United States, one might assume that the journey ahead — to the tune of 200 minutes, plus a 15-minute intermission — will march forth in the tradition of the grand, biblical epics of the Golden Age of Hollywood. But perhaps it would be naive to project any narrative assumptions, for director Brady Corbet is no traditional filmmaker, and “The Brutalist” is no typical film.

The story follows two decades in the life of fictional architect Tóth, a Jewish Hungarian immigrant who escapes post-World War II Europe only to find new horrors and struggles in the United States as his complex and troubling relationship with a powerful Pennsylvania industrialist manifests itself into Tóth’s newest and greatest creation.

Adrien Brody and Guy Pearce are especially terrific as Tóth and Van Buren, the industrialist, respectively, and Felicity Jones and Joe Alwyn round out an excellent ensemble of supporting characters. Production designer Judy Becker and cinematographer Lol Crawley deliver beautiful, breathtaking and awe-inspiring set pieces and images, made all the more impressive by the film’s shockingly tiny budget of less than $10 million. Corbet’s decision to shoot the film on VistaVision, a richly detailed larger format film stock that fell out of popularity half a century ago, also lends itself to the film’s grand scale and classical, colorful look.

It’s a charmingly directed work, one that unravels with great patience, poetry and confidence. But for its exquisite craftsmanship and attention to detail, the writing leaves more to be desired. This is not to say that being more concerned with the architect than the architecture is a defect. It is a fictional biopic, after all. An audience member could easily substitute Tóth’s line of work for many and his immigrant experience for theirs. 

But when the emotional cores of the film, of which there are many, all seem to manifest themselves into Tóth’s new creation, one might wonder what the reason behind it all is for him. After so many years of setbacks and threats, he keeps returning to his great new American building. It is torture; it is hell, but on he goes.

In a Europe ravaged by wars, brutalism found a purpose in the relatively inexpensive and abundant nature of concrete and the need for large, affordable housing. Bold in appearance and forward-thinking in its ideals—function over decoration and affordability over attractiveness, for instance—these buildings were built not just to last but to endure.

We understand the significance and motivation behind Tóth’s style of work back in Europe, as he explains its resilient nature in a pivotal moment with Van Buren. His works are antidotes to the poisons of his time. But what happens when you bring an antidote to the U.S., a land where the poison comes not from an external threat but instead festers from within?

We see flashes of this dissonance—an American dream aborted from the moment of its conception—throughout the film, starting from the opening notes of the first overture. We see dissonance in the relationship between Tóth and his wife Erzsébet, regarding her post-war disability. We see dissonance between Tóth and Van Buren regarding his budget, or lack thereof. We also see dissonance between Tóth and himself, but unfortunately, this is the one that feels developed the least.

The relationship between art and artist is a rich and timeless one. Corbet has a lot of great ideas bubbling around in this film. However, by presenting many of them from a distance and letting the audience observe and decide for themselves, there is a lack of clarity that develops in relation to the film and its thesis. In many cases, objectivity works, but on a scale this massive, a more clearly pronounced central conflict between Tóth and himself or the U.S. could have helped the film feel more complete.

Make no mistake, the film is thoroughly engaging. And if it intended to flesh out its meatier ideas, it very well could have been longer. Somewhere out there is a four-hour film that wraps things up less hastily. For what it’s worth, though, leaving the audience with the suggestion that art may be more about the destination than the journey is a cheeky, exciting and thoughtful final punch.

Corbet has a good American novel on his hands, one that probably belongs more in the conversation of great, engrossing dramas than grand historical epics. It’s a damningly impressive feat in independent filmmaking, but its towering presentation and ambitiousness often get in the way of the development of its thematic complexity. It’s not unsatisfying, but it does leave one hungry for more.

It’s certainly worth checking out in 70mm or IMAX if possible. When its very existence — in all of its old-fashioned theatrical glory, intermission included — in the year 2025 is a gift in and of itself, the least we can do is experience it properly on the big screen, the way it was intended. It just might take more than one watch to fully grasp it all. One can always see it again.