Author: SceneByGreen

Brady Corbet | 3hr 35min

When Hungarian-Jewish immigrant László Tóth first arrives in the United States, it is as if we are watching a birth from inside the belly of the steamship itself. The dissonant score of plucked strings and hollow percussion blend with the chaotic din of passengers below deck, scrambling in the darkness to catch sight of their new home. The handheld camera moves in a single, disorienting take with László through the crowd, submerged in total confusion, until finally a glimpse of blinding light pierces through. It takes a few seconds for our eyes to adjust when he exits, but as we gaze up at his beaming smile, we follow his line of sight to New York’s beacon of hope. The Statue of Liberty looms proudly over the tumbling camera, and as Daniel Blumberg’s booming, four-note theme breaks through the raucous sound design with orchestral grandeur, an awe-inspiring vision of the American Dream is announced – albeit one which has been turned totally upside down.

Upon moving to Philadelphia to work for his cousin’s furniture business, still that brassy motif continues to follow László through The Brutalist, welcoming him to a land of freedom and opportunity. There, his expertise as an architect comes in handy when he is hired to renovate a wealthy industrialist’s study into a library. After Mr. Van Buren gets over his initial confusion and outrage, it is also that incredible talent which lands László in the businessman’s inner circle, where he uses his careful craftsmanship to carve a path to prosperity. Still, at no point during their affiliation does László forget that this entire arrangement is founded upon unspoken caveats. As we traverse Brady Corbet’s epic immigrant saga, László’s relationships to both the United States and his homeland are knotted together, yielding complex artistic fusions from bitter nostalgia, soured dreams, and deep-seated cultural trauma.

The void which The Brutalist fills within modern cinema is one that is only ever occupied these days by films with equal parts mass appeal, artistic ambition, and vintage nostalgia. Right from the moment the word ‘Overture’ appears on a black screen in the opening seconds, it is clear that this is a throwback to the event films of a long-gone era, complete with a lengthy run time and a much-needed intermission. Even Corbet’s decision to shoot on VistaVision, a high-resolution format that fell from popularity in the 1960s, captures that fine, grainy texture and rich colouring of Golden Age Hollywood. With a score that also merges the classical majesty of Maurice Jarre and the avant-garde stylings of Jonny Greenwood, The Brutalist thoughtfully captures László’s split mindset in this country of contradictions, positioning him as an artist caught between the Old World and the New.

Of course, that music comparison inevitably draws us to the Paul Thomas Anderson parallels. From The Master’s introspective character study, Corbet borrows a wandering, post-war existentialism, haunted by substance abuse, sexual affairs, and memories of immense suffering. László Tóth is a far more sophisticated man than Freddie Quell, yet both seek some return to normalcy after being separated from their homes and loved ones. On a visual and narrative level though, The Brutalist bears greater resemblance to There Will Be Blood, building a grand mythos around the foundations and evolution of American capitalism. Like oil baron Daniel Plainview, László erects towering monuments of human progress from the raw materials of the earth, and Corbet’s astounding long shots bask in those rugged, monolithic structures rising from the green hills of Pennsylvania.

With that said, Plainview does not possess László’s eye for aesthetic and engineer’s mind, making his closest counterpart here the business-minded Mr. Van Buren. The entrepreneur’s bizarre description of their conversations as “intellectually stimulating” and the pedestal he places László upon at opulent dinner parties transcends mere admiration. In his eyes, this immigrant architect is an object of perverse fascination, fetishised for his exotic background, ingenuity, and trauma. Repressed homoerotic attraction and jealousy stoke feelings of insecurity in Van Buren, who finally encounters a barrier that money can’t overcome. As such, the closest he can get to possessing László’s intrinsic gift is through exploiting his labour. This largely comes in the guise of generous benefaction, though when all that charm is stripped away, Corbet reveals a hideous, hateful creature who takes advantage of his subordinate in far more depraved ways as well.

Van Buren easily stands among Guy Pearce’s most compelling characters, played with a roguish allure that draws the respect of similarly powerful allies, but it is Adrien Brody who comes out even stronger in his raw, battered performance as László. He is the culmination of countless devastating experiences, each resulting in unhealthy coping mechanisms that only deepen his psychological wounds. In particular, the heroin that was commonly used to treat pain on the journey to America becomes a toxic habit, frequently used as self-medication. When he attends a club early on to get high, the camera’s energetic swinging at low angles among musicians and dancers eventually gives way to a slow, lifeless zoom in on his glazed-over expression, while the upbeat jazz music nightmarishly dissolves into discordant mayhem.

When László is hard at work on the other hand, Brody projects a supreme, self-composed confidence that seems entirely compartmentalised from his drug-fuelled breakdowns. His genius is limitless under the right conditions, taking physical form in those imposing buildings and interiors which are celebrated in Corbet’s photography. The library especially is a feat of clean, minimalist design, creating a forced perspective from the entry towards a rounded window wall where sunlight filters through translucent white drapes. The bookshelf doors which open in graceful unison make for an elegant touch here too, though it isn’t until Van Buren commissions the architect to construct a community centre that his style evolves into full-fledged brutalism.

Concrete is a sturdy and cheap material, László reasons, though visually it also makes a powerful statement in its rejection of smooth, polished textures and ornamentations. From this coarse mixture of cement, water, and aggregates, his giant slabs and pillars impose a geometric simplicity upon the rolling countryside, while also expressing a creative, spiritual reverence in the cross that forms from the negative space between two towers. Timelapse photography and metric montages fuse with Blumberg’s driving score as progress is made in the construction, though even beyond László’s creations, Corbet’s camera continues to gaze in wonder at the steep terraces of Italian marble quarries and the vast, steel scaffolding of industrial sites.

After all, don’t those structures which service our basic needs for shelter, security, and community stand at the cornerstone of human civilisation? On a cultural level too, don’t their aesthetic and functionality define entire historical epochs, while also transcending time itself by nature of their permanence? With an immigrant at the centre of this story, Corbet is keenly aware of the irony here – not only was American modernism largely shaped by outsiders importing ideas from Eastern Europe, but those same innovators suffered greatly within the nation’s oppressive economic system.

Being divided cleanly into a rise and fall narrative structure, it is The Brutalist’s second act which especially traces that growing disillusionment, setting László on a steady downward slide. With the arrival of his wife Erzsébet and niece Zsófia as well, it becomes even more apparent just how emotionally stunted he is, keeping him from recovering the stable, loving relationship they shared before the war. Soon, both women join him in recognising the emptiness of America’s promises. “This whole country is rotten,” Erzsébet mournfully laments after his attempt to treat her pain with heroin goes disastrously wrong. At this point, it seems that the only way out is to begin a new chapter of their lives in Israel.

Unfortunately, it is also this latter half of the film which strays from Corbet’s tight, economical storytelling, stagnating in some plot threads while wandering down others that aren’t so cleanly integrated. As a result, the end of László’s arc comes about abruptly, with nothing but a tonally jarring epilogue to reflect on the legacy he left behind. The monologue here is overly expository, clunkily revealing layers to his artistry which link back to his experiences as a Holocaust survivor, and it is incredibly disappointing that our first proper viewing of the finished community centre comes through fuzzy video tape footage.

Instead, the most impactful conclusion to The Brutalist arrives at the end of Part 2. Corbet’s handheld camerawork and long takes have consistently imbued this epic with a primitive intimacy, and now as Erzsébet confronts Van Buren in front of his friends, both are used in a single, tremendous shot lasting several minutes. All at once, the polite civility which has long maintained the systemic injustice he has profited off crumbles, exposing a cowardly, insecure man who is nothing without the respect of his peers. Where László’s legacy is substantial and far-reaching, the haunting ambiguity of Van Buren’s own fate appropriately transforms him into a ghost of sorts, intangibly bound to that magnificent community centre and the talented architect who designed it. Such is the nature of a culture which purposefully imbalances the relationship between investor and creator though, and as this sprawling, historic fable so vividly expresses, it is often the latter who bears the true cost of progress.

The Brutalist is currently playing in theatres.

Jean Renoir | 1hr 40min

Locomotive driver Lantier has been painfully afflicted by the consequences of his ancestors’ alcoholism since birth, though the way it manifests as headaches and uncontrollable fits of rage in La Bête Humaine, it might as well be a blood curse. When he is caught in the throes of passion or intoxication, he appears to be possessed by some invisible force, at one point compelling him to wrap his hands around the neck of his sweetheart Flore before a passing train snaps him back to reality. As such, it is a dangerous game that his newest love interest Séverine is playing, slyly luring the angry, volatile beast from out of its cage and setting it on her abusive husband.

The link between France’s poetic realism and Hollywood’s films noir is evident in Jean Renoir’s bleak, psychological tale, laying out the blueprints of those corrupted antiheroes and femme fatales who would dominate the next decade of American cinema. That La Bête Humaine’s roots extend back to the naturalistic writing of novelist Émile Zola only further embeds it within a history of fatalistic storytelling as well, rejecting romanticism in favour of moral ambiguity and melancholic contemplations on the inexorable nature of man. After all, Lantier’s downfall is woven into the very fabric of his character, dooming him to a tragic fate decided before he was even born – so who better to navigate his dance with darkness than the French master of camera movement?

Coming off a string of cinematic triumphs, the versatility of Renoir’s fluid visual style was well-established in 1938, though here it is more precisely aimed at generating a pervasive, uneasy tension. This is not to say his camerawork isn’t swept away by romance on occasion, even falling under Séverine’s allure in one ballroom scene as it lightly weaves its way among dancers to find her, but far more notable is the chilly distance which it keeps between us and the actors. When fate guides Lantier to the train where his path will soon collide with Séverine’s, we are kept on the outside, only catching glimpses through the windows as we drift past. Moreover, the murder she conducts with her jealous husband Roubaud unfolds entirely out of view, just behind the closed doors of a private compartment. Her wealthy godfather Grandmorin is the target here for allegedly assaulting her in the past, though given Roubaud’s abusive nature, his own future isn’t looking terribly secure either.

With an infatuated Lantier as the sole witness to this assassination, Séverine finds no difficulty in covering it up, and thus an affair begins to blossom between the two. Renoir’s camera seems to be in equal adoration of her as well, often framing her through windows and mirrors like the subject of a painter’s gaze, though he does not shy away from the darkness which encompasses both in sultry, gloomy reflections. While Jean Gabin is playing out internal battles of self-control and impulsive fury, Simone Simon delivers a similarly layered performance as Séverine, albeit one which conceals a sharp, manipulative mind beneath seductive pleas for Lantier’s masculine protection. When she eventually confesses her love to him one rainy night, the camera’s movement from their kiss to an overflowing, nearby barrel isn’t just a suggestive hint at the following consummation – it is an ominous symbol of mounting emotions ready to spill over at any moment.

The first attempt on Roubaud’s life thus stands out as perhaps the most potent harbinger of film noir in La Bête Humaine, both in terms of narrative and mise-en-scène. With Séverine’s murder of Grandmorin becoming a point of morbid intrigue for Lantier, she takes him to a murky, industrial train yard where can find out for himself what it is like to kill a man, and Renoir’s lighting grows more expressionistic than ever. Long shadows are thrown across the rough ground, and a single strip of light illuminates Lantier’s guilty eyes, before he reaches down into a puddle and claims a steel pipe as his weapon. Even with Séverine’s encouragement though, still he cannot bring himself to unleash the murderous animal within him – at least, not upon the target she has aimed him towards.

Like the steam trains he is so lovingly obsessed with, Lantier cannot deviate from the rigid tracks he has been set on, and it is no use trying to slow or control him. Renoir has been building this metaphor right from the start through montages of chugging wheels, burning furnaces, and our soot-covered protagonist at the helm, while those recurring shots fixed to the vehicle itself build a similarly brisk momentum, hurtling forward into pitch-black tunnels and beneath bridges. His fate is as tragically assured as the destination of any locomotive, finally toppling headfirst into madness when Séverine tries to seduce him one last time into killing her husband.

Much like the murder of Grandmorin, Renoir’s camera keeps a safe distance from the violence which unfolds, though this time we are given glimpses through a doorway as Lantier furiously chases his lover. With so much of this unfolding offscreen, we are given nothing but her chilling screams to fill in the dead air before he finally re-enters the frame, pushes her onto a bed, and sinks a knife into her flesh. In the aftermath, the sentimental lyrics of a French love song seem to taunt Lantier as his mind begins to clear, and the camera drifts mournfully across Séverine’s limp, lifeless body.

“Whoever tries to love Ninette,

Will end up with a broken heart,

Ninon’s little heart,

Is tiny and frail and adorable.”

Still set on a singular, unwavering path, Lantier trudges down the railway tracks and towards his final shift at work. The beast within him has won, and now only death can end the suffering it has inflicted upon his mind and soul. After witnessing him jump from a moving train and finding his body in the grass, it seems that even his colleague Pecqeaux agrees too, poignantly remarking that “I haven’t seen him look so peaceful in a long time.” Perhaps this calmness found in the destruction of the self is the best that any of us can hope for, Renoir cynically laments – and yet La Bête Humaine never entirely discounts the grace which comes with such suffering. If anything, the fact that Lantier’s anguish resonates so loudly only affirms the existence of beauty in his troubled life, letting us cherish it even more for its delicate, fateful fragility.

La Bête Humaine is currently streaming on The Criterion Channel.