Review: 'The Brutalist' - The Boundary Where Emotion Turns into 'Unprotected Consent'

"Watch this year's movies within this year."

With that mindset, I've been using streaming services at the end of the year to catch up on films I missed in theaters.
The film I watched this time was "The Brutalist," which was released in Japan on February 21, 2025. I knew this film had been available on Amazon Prime for a while, but because of its 215-minute runtime, it stayed on my watchlist until I finally managed to watch it at the end of the year.

The impression the film left on me was extremely profound; the period detail, art direction, and music were all highly polished, and it felt like a film with high aspirations, filled with social criticism. However, at the same time, I also felt it was a work that carried issues that prevent me from praising it unconditionally.

What bothered me in particular was that, despite the film carrying a strong political message about "anti-Semitic discrimination," it is not a biographical film dealing with real people.

■ The weight of "verifiability" in biographical films about real people

For example, in biographical films about real people like "Schindler's List," "Hannah Arendt," or "The Diary of Anne Frank," both the audience and critics can verify whether the depictions are appropriate—what that person actually did, what happened in which era and place, and where the historical facts end and the creator's fiction begins.

On the other hand, "The Brutalist" follows the format of a biographical film strictly, yet the central character is fictional. I felt there was a unique political danger in this. However, the technique of making a biography-style film with a fictional character is not rare. Looking back at film history, there is a lineage and a creative intent behind it.

I would like to consider where "The Brutalist" stands after first confirming that premise.

■ The lineage of fictional biographical films

There are broadly three lineages of "biography-style films" featuring fictional characters. The first is fictional biography used to tell national or social history.

A representative example is "Forrest Gump."

This film depicted fragments of modern American history—the Vietnam War, the Civil Rights Movement, the Cold War, and the Watergate scandal—by passing them through the life of one innocent man.

What is important here is that the protagonist is positioned not as an "agent who moves history" but as an "entity that encounters history." By intentionally having a fictional character bear the political evaluation and responsibility that would be unavoidable if the protagonist were a real person, the film shelves moral judgment and reclaims history as national nostalgia.

In such works, the fact that it is "fictional" is shared with the audience from the start, and pushing through a strong political argument is not the goal.

The second is the lineage that deconstructs or caricatures the form of biography itself.
A representative example is the group of mockumentary works typified by "This Is Spinal Tap." These can be said to be films for "enjoying" rather than "making one believe" the style of rock musician biographies or documentaries themselves.

In this type of work, the audience understands from the beginning that "this is fiction." Since the premise is that the character is fictional, the goal is not to utilize the credibility or historical truth of a biography. Rather, the main focus is on exaggerating, deconstructing, and laughing at the narrative style and tropes that biographical films possess.

In other words, this is a "playful biography" that shares the imagination of "we are presenting this under this premise" as fiction from the start. The audience is not seeking emotional impact or historical understanding, but rather enjoying the form of biography itself. Here, it is not assumed from the start that the biography will carry political arguments or historical legitimacy.

The third is fictional biography used to step into the "dangerous territory" of power and history.
A representative example is "Citizen Kane." It uses a fictional character to avoid depicting a model directly, even though one clearly exists.

Here, the structure of "fiction as an exemption device" is revealed for the first time. Works belonging to this lineage sharply denounce real-world structures like power, success myths, and the media, while leaving room to evade responsibility by saying, "This is not a biography of any specific person." The fictional character functions as a shield to ensure freedom of criticism.

So, which lineage does "The Brutalist" belong to?
This film is neither an innocent fable in the style of "Forrest Gump" nor a genre deconstruction in the style of "This Is Spinal Tap." Formally, I believe it is closest to the "political film with an exemption" type of "Citizen Kane."

However, what makes it decisively different is the weight of the subject matter it handles. This film touches upon post-Holocaust history, immigration, anti-Semitic discrimination, and the ongoing real-world politics of Israel.

Moreover, through techniques like date markers, news footage, and award ceremonies, the film portrays the protagonist, László, as if he were a 'witness to history.' Despite being a fictional character, he feels 'more historical' than a real person. I believe this distortion is the film's greatest issue.

■ The Danger of Establishing Unverifiable 'Truthiness'

The first problem created by this distortion is the establishment of an unverifiable 'truthiness.' If the film were clearly presented as fiction, even with a fictional character, the problem would be limited.

However, this film thoroughly adopts the texture of a biographical film. As a result, a sense of conviction naturally arises in the audience that 'this must be a typical example of history' or 'a Jewish architect like this must have actually existed.'

Even though he is not a real person, he acts more like a historical figure than a real one. As a result, there is a danger that the composition presented by the film—victimization and perpetration, salvation and return, the legitimacy of a state—will settle into 'understanding' without ever undergoing historical verification.

The second problem is that representativeness is arbitrarily constructed by the author.
In biographical films about real people, the scope of what can be represented is naturally limited by the life being depicted. Schindler is Schindler, Arendt is Arendt, and Anne is Anne. Their lives do not represent 'all Jewish people' or 'history as a whole' beyond their specific contexts.

However, the situation is different with a fictional biography. The audience views the protagonist as an individual while simultaneously reading him as a symbol of 'persecuted Jewish people in general.' This format allows the author to consolidate propositions like 'this is how Jewish people were,' 'this is how immigrants suffer,' or 'this is what Israel means' into a single fictional character, presenting them as if they were typical examples of history.

Because he is a fictional character, strong empathy is induced without it ever being made clear who he represents or to what extent he can be generalized. I would like to call this structure the 'violence of representativeness.' Precisely because the power to evoke empathy is so strong, the generalization occurring behind it is difficult for the audience to perceive.

And the third problem is that this format can obscure 'inconvenient specifics' regarding Israel and Zionism.
If a film dealing with real people attempts to touch upon Israel or Zionism, unavoidable realities inevitably arise. Which year, which land, who did what. The relationship with the local inhabitants, namely the Palestinians. International politics, violence, expulsion, resistance. These specifics are inseparable from the work's responsibility.

However, with a fictional character, one can bypass these specifics as much as one likes. What remains for the audience is an abstract and universal story of 'those without a place finding a place to return to' or 'reaching a destination after persecution.' Given that the film shows almost no specific depiction of László after he moves to Israel, yet the epilogue suddenly speaks only of that achievement, I cannot help but think this structure is the result of trying to achieve the intended narrative effect while avoiding these issues.

This story is strong. It is almost too strong. This is because it can function as a self-narrative of Zionism. Moreover, since the protagonist is fictional, the structure makes it difficult for counter-evidence based on historical facts or different perspectives to enter. What is being told here is not the specifics of history, but an 'arrival story' that is emotionally easy to accept, and I felt that this fact itself is the most dangerous point of this film.

The fourth problem is the creation of a 'structure of exemption' that allows for both criticism and defense. If criticized, one can say, 'This is fiction and does not assert a specific history,' and those who want to defend it can say, 'It symbolically depicts historical truth.' Films about real people must be verified by historical facts if criticized, and supported by documents if defended. However, fictional biographies have their responsibility for verification diluted while maintaining a strong political nature. This is the fundamental reason why I cannot praise this film without reservations.

■ Creative Episodes Cannot Be 'Innocent'

What is even more troublesome is that, being fictional, the creative episodes in this film cannot be 'innocent.' The episodes placed in the story seem to be arranged according to a certain intention rather than being a accumulation of coincidences.

For example, the scene where László faces a setback after moving to America with hope, only to be 'kicked out of the house by his cousin.' The cousin is depicted as being accepted into American society by changing his name, changing the name of his shop to suit American tastes, wearing trendy clothes, and even changing his religion.

In contrast, László, who does not abandon his faith (scenes of him visiting a church repeatedly are depicted), is excluded even by his own Jewish kin. This contrast does not just speak of a simple family discord. It is a division between 'those who changed themselves to be accepted' and 'those who did not,' with the latter suffering unreasonable discrimination. Here, the story seems to emphasize 'an unreasonable world where unassimilated Jewish people are excluded'.

Also, the scene at the party where the wealthy Buren asks, 'Why do you build?' and László speaks of his belief in architecture is depicted movingly as the highlight of the film.

He speaks of his ideal to create architecture that can endure, while touching upon the memories of catastrophe and the possibility of anger and fear covering society once again. While that scene itself appears to be a universal ideal held by a creator, the problem is where that ideal is connected within the context of the entire story.

After accumulating a flow of 'Europe = persecution' and 'America = potential discrimination and false tolerance,' the film finally sends László to Israel. Consequently, this noble architectural philosophy is presented in a way that is inseparable from 'Israel as the legitimate destination for someone who has nowhere to belong'. I felt a strong sense of discomfort with how this connection was made.

■ The Problem of Criticism in America

This point is deeply connected to why the ambiguity of this film is easily evaluated as 'maturity' or 'complexity' in American criticism. In American critical culture, the fact that a work does not present a clear conclusion or political judgment is sometimes received positively as 'leaving room for the audience to think' or 'a stance that does not reduce things to simple good and evil.'

In particular, issues surrounding post-Holocaust history and Israel are 'internal issues' in American society that are strongly linked to domestic politics and culture. Therefore, many audience members and critics can supplement the parts the film does not speak about with their own background knowledge and shared context.

As a result, gaps and biases that should ideally be examined are easily reinterpreted as 'intentional white space' or 'cautious storytelling.' However, this ambiguity is simultaneously on the verge of being propaganda.

Even if the film does not explicitly state that 'the founding of Israel is correct,' if it dissolves the affirmation of a nation or a destination into the emotion of a personal history about 'the salvation of those without a place,' the audience may emotionally accept it without realizing it as a political claim. This could be said to be a more subtle way of operating than blatant propaganda.

In fact, in a situation where the serious humanitarian crisis in Gaza caused by Israel is currently the subject of international criticism, the fact that this film has been nominated for an Academy Award and is highly acclaimed at multiple major film festivals seems to me to be one piece of evidence showing how easily this structure can be critically rendered invisible.

■ At the boundary where emotion turns into 'uncritical consent'

Based on the above, I believe 'The Brutalist' is clearly a film with two faces.

This work has value in that it exposes the hypocritical duality of modern Western society and accuses how discrimination is structurally reproduced. Its critical nature is sharp, and it is likely because of its sincerity that it has resonated with audiences.

However, at the same time, by using the format of a fictional biography, this work dilutes the responsibility for verification and contains a structure that can emotionally affirm Israel as a 'destination' without lacking criticism or counter-perspectives.

That is both the freedom of fiction and a political exemption. Things that were not spoken of and things that were not depicted are treated as if they were not problems. I felt a strong sense of discomfort with that point.

I received this film as a highly distorted work that combines excellent critical insight with political dangers that cannot be overlooked. There is no doubt that it is a highly accomplished film. However, precisely because the film is so accomplished, I also think we need to read the politics inherent in the 'form' of this work more carefully.

The moment fiction begins to act as a substitute for history, emotion often turns into uncritical consent. Isn't 'The Brutalist' confronting us with the danger of that boundary?