Jon Stribling

Watching The Brutalist felt less like engaging with a film and more like enduring an extended act of cinematic self-importance. Clocking in at an indulgent runtime that drags mercilessly, the film mistakes length for depth, giving the audience far too much time to realize it has very little to say. The story, such as it is, is buried under layers of cryptic exposition and brooding silence. Rather than immersing the viewer, the film holds them at arm’s length, offering fragments of narrative in an almost disdainful trickle. What should be a compelling tale of artistry and isolation becomes a muddled, pretentious slog through dimly lit rooms and whispered monologues. To make matters worse, the performances teeter on the edge of parody. What might have been emotionally powerful in more restrained hands instead becomes a showcase of overwrought expressions and scenery-chewing intensity. The actors seem less interested in portraying characters than in being seen acting—every moment is a performance screaming for accolades. In the end, The Brutalist is all affect and no substance. It wants to be profound, but it’s simply ponderous. A monument to its own seriousness, it forgets that good storytelling requires more than moody lighting and elongated pauses. Save yourself the time.