Corbet and Fastvold are fond of twist endings, which pop open trap doors in their screenplays and leave their audiences feeling lightheaded with revelation.
The Brutalist, like
The Childhood of a Leader, ends with a flash-forward that seems to offer a jolt of clarity, leaping past decades of disappointment and triumph to a retrospective of what ultimately became Tóth’s famed career, in which the Doylestown project is just one chapter. In this final movement, the formerly timid Zsófia moves to the foreground. Now a formidable grown woman, proud Israeli émigré and guardian of her uncle’s legacy, she gives a speech in which she contextualises his blueprints as expressions of the sublimated trauma of the Holocaust and displacement, interpreting design details that Corbet and Fastvold have cleverly hidden in plain sight.
It has the authority of a definitive take, and you initially feel as if, having reached a sufficient historical distance, the main body of the preceding three hours or so has snapped into focus with all its moment-to-moment ambiguities resolved into a coherent narrative, complete with an articulation of Tóth’s unvoiced yearning for a Jewish homeland—a yearning still unarticulated by the architect, who by this point can no longer speak for himself.
The question is whether you believe her—whether you believe, say, that this or that use of negative space is a secret autobiography, a cry of pain, a metaphor for absence and dream of wholeness, a stray artistic impulse, an abstracted aesthetic principle, a begrudging acquiescence to the politics of the job at hand, or some or all of none of the above amid the confusion, compromise and contingency that define a life. The question of whether or not to believe her is really a question about who owns the memory of the Holocaust—that is, whether or not the Zionism percolating in the background of the film is, as Zsófia proudly but perhaps self-interestedly suggests, the ultimate expression of Tóth’s desire to transcend his suffering and to build something from the rubble of the world that was taken from him. More generally, it is a question about the legacy of artists, and about the usefulness or presumption of the critical, curatorial and commercial packaging that reifies protean creativity, for better or worse.
https://www.theartnewspaper.com/202...ien-brody-brady-corbet-architecture-holocaust