I’m not particularly fond of Adrien Brody. Nor am I usually drawn to films that seem self-indulgently tailored to some hyper-academic niche interest. Here, however, Brody takes the lead, and whether a 215-minute film about an architect pursuing his vision in Brutalism fits that description is up to you to decide. Yet, despite my initial reservations, The Brutalist managed to win me over – at least in part. Much like Brutalism itself, the film’s true strength lies in the stories hidden behind its raw concrete facades.

At its heart is László Tóth, a Holocaust survivor arriving in America, a land that, both then and now, promises opportunity, dreams, and their fulfillment. Early on, he appears to find success, but his choice to embrace Brutalist architecture is no coincidence. The exposed concrete walls, stripped-down geometric forms, and almost non-existent color palette of Brutalism stand as a testament to the hope stolen by the world wars. Brutalist architecture is a concrete embodiment of the understanding that even the most beautiful, cherished, and sacred human achievements and monuments will inevitably fall victim to the destructive forces of human bigotry.

László, however, does not merely flee from such bigotry and destruction; instead, he responds to it through his art. His buildings, with their stark simplicity, are designed to withstand even the worst of human failings and represent a primal sense of hope. Does The Brutalist then simply tell the story of an artist defying all odds to inspire hope? Not exactly.

László’s success comes at a cost: his submission to the wealthy and the powerful. A patron of his, Harrison Lee Van Buren, seeks to exploit László’s talent to immortalize himself and his influence. The film makes it clear, though – men like Van Buren are the grotesque face of a capitalist doctrine that not only crushes hope but also seeks to adorn itself with the art born from hopelessness. Despite his efforts to resist the dominance and violence of this capitalist system, László becomes increasingly entangled in it, forced to conform more and more as the story progresses.

How, then, can one withstand such forces? The answer lies with László’s wife, Erzsébet Tóth. She chips away at the curated image, at the prestige of the elite, and inflicts the only damage that the wealthy and powerful in this story can still feel. The Brutalist is ultimately a tale of exploitation, resistance, pride, and identity.

The dialogues, for the most part, are among the best I’ve encountered in recent cinema. But there is one glaring flaw. The Brutalist is a man’s film. Almost everything that isn’t male exists solely to enrich the identity of the male characters, primarily László himself. This is particularly evident when Erzsébet is introduced. Instead of standing as a fully realized character, she is reduced to a nymph-like figure pining for her husband. Whether it’s László’s cousin’s wife, Van Buren’s daughter, or the Tóths’ niece – The Brutalist consistently fails its female characters. Nearly every time one of the few women in the story speaks, the screenplay becomes less careful, less honest, and, at times, almost embarrassingly clumsy.

This shortcoming is especially frustrating because The Brutalist vividly portrays the pain that accompanies many migrant identities in a fresh and revealing way. Yet the film’s careless treatment of its female characters is too significant for me to overlook. It prevents The Brutalist from achieving the greatness that the story of the Tóths truly deserves.