Brady Corbet’s The Brutalist contains both fiction and documentary. European émigré architects, particularly those connected to the Bauhaus, had a profound impact on the post-war built environment. Figures like Hungarian-born László Moholy-Nagy and Marcel Breuer, despite their fame, struggled in the early stages of their careers.
I am convinced that secondary character precedent studies, like the German Bauhaus architects who fled the Nazis — Walter Gropius and Ludwig Mies van der Rohe — coupled with earlier Jewish émigré Louis Kahn, provided additional source material. Corbet’s fictional László Toth is a rich collage of these real architects’ lives, embodying the tension between idealism and compromise. Some critics argue that he Brutalist exaggerates the hardship these architects faced, given that many ultimately achieved wealth and fame in America. However, their initial struggles — poverty, cultural alienation, professional scepticism — are well documented. One would think that Breuer, already famous for his tubular Wassily chair, would have eased seamlessly into emigration; on the contrary, it was fraught with challenges. The film stands as a powerful, haunting allegory for post-war architecture and the sacrifices behind every monumental dream. When asked why Brutalism, Corbet simply answered: ‘I was always fascinated by how much people hate Brutalism.’ Filmed on a modest budget of under $10 million, its 10 Academy Award nominations are no small feat. ‘Low budget, high pleasure’ — a dictum I always use. The film’s sense of foreboding — the end of globalism, the rise of resilience, reconstruction, renewed nationalism, and xenophobia — is chillingly apt. Even the poster, showing an upside-down Statue of Liberty, hints at an inverted world order, offering the immigrant’s disoriented gaze as a metaphor for global change. The runtime is daunting at over three and a half hours, even with an intended break. Those prone to distraction should watch with headphones and clear their schedule. The Brutalist demands from the viewer — but rewards deeply.
Brutalist architecture: poetry and controversy in concrete
The Brutalist stirred a rush of memories. What first drew me to Brutalism was its sheer honesty — the rawness of materials, the way concrete becomes a plastic sculptural medium; its surface tells stories through the grain of timber or steel formwork. The poetic potential of concrete was something I first discovered through a book on Le Corbusier — the only architecture book I could find in our small-town library.
Brutalism is not for everyone. Stripped of decoration and embellishment, Brutalism forces a focus on form, proportion, texture, and elegance. Today, the public’s distrust of Brutalism persists, fuelled by its perceived coldness and the starkness of exposed concrete. Derived from the French term le béton brut, or ‘raw concrete’, Brutalism is centred around this material (note that it does not stem from the adjective ‘brutal’).
As a second-year architecture student, I designed a Brutalist-inspired project with repetitive concrete walls and nearly failed, thanks to the dominance of postmodernism’s ‘humanising’ ethos at the time. Later, working in London, I was mesmerised by the new Lloyd’s of London building by Richard Rogers. Yet, London also revealed the dystopian side of Brutalism – grey, rain-soaked concrete social housing blocks that seemed to drain the spirit. Brutalism, I realised, is inherently polarising: inspiring admiration and criticism in equal measure.
Years later, visits to Louis Kahn’s Yale Art Gallery and Marcel Breuer’s Whitney Museum of American Art cemented my belief in the profound civic value of Brutalist architecture. These visits were pivotal in shaping the many Brutalist civic structures that our firm would later design.
“Corbet’s fictional László Toth is a rich collage of these real architects’ lives.
One of these is the Javett-UP Art Centre (2019) in Pretoria. Our ‘faceted concrete Mapungubwe mountain’ was, predictably, divisive. One project manager deemed it a ‘monstrosity’ and lobbied the client to clad it. However, visiting internationally-acclaimed architect Peter Rich confirmed the beauty of the raw, handmade quality of our shuttering —proof that Brutalism’s authenticity still resonates with those willing to look deeper and closer. Some of the strongest Brutalist influences on South African architecture began with architect Roelof Uytenbogaardt who studied under Louis Kahn.
Should one pass through Welkom, the NG Kerk Welkom-Wes (1965) showcases Uytenbogaardt’s mastery of light and space. Originally a source of controversy within the church, today the building embraces tourists, complete with informational displays explaining its design. A tour of Brutalism in South Africa would encompass other notable sites too: the Afrikaanse Taalmonument (1975) in Paarl, the Windburg Voortrekker Monument (1968) by Hans Hallen, former Rand Afrikaans University (now part of the University of Johannesburg), perhaps a meal at Brasserie de Paris in Pretoria, and a trip to the Nancefield Interchange, with its iconic ‘Musina Hand Bridge’ (now shortlisted for a Fulton Award).
Nobody cares about nondescript or mundane architecture. Great architecture — and Brutalist architecture specifically, elicits opinion, debate, and reflection: sometimes to the point of polarisation, love it or hate it.
