In a short epilogue, The Brutalist finally shows us László Toth’s buildings. Brady Corbet’s film presents as a given that Toth is a genius architect of the Bauhaus school, but we are only shown one of his creations—a library—in full right up till the final 10 minutes. The format in which they’re presented is strange: a showreel for a biennale that looks like it’s shot on cheap video, with cheesy transitions. A film with startling pristine images spends its last moments looking like DTV. It’s a strange end to the film – and that’s without even getting into the whole Israel of it all. The Brutalist hits you several times with shots of roads and rail tracks zipping by, as seen from the front of a car or train. If the intention is to have the viewer recall the opening of Lawrence of Arabia, it worked on me. Corbet’s film has that David Lean sprawl, certainly in terms of runtime (202 minutes), but also in the ambition and density of its storytelling.

If you saw the poster for The Brutalist, featuring Adrien Brody squinting his eyes, staring straight at you in a low-angle shot, cigarette in mouth, with streaks of fire flying across, you might take him for an Italian-American gangster. Especially since The Brutalist sounds like the perfect title for a gangster flick, set in late 1950s America, adding to its vibe as the ultimate land of freedom and wild wealth. But The Brutalist isn’t that. It’s about architecture — big, heavy, concrete-and-steel stuff. These imposing structures mirror the post-World War II psyche. For those untouched by the war’s direct traumas, these brutalist buildings might feel cold and uninviting, even ugly. But for those who have endured the dehumanising horrors of war, they represent something deeply intimate.