Early in Brady Corbet’s The Brutalist, architect László Toth is shown building a desk accompanied by a nondiegetic recording of the first time David Ben-Gurion read aloud, in Hebrew, the Israeli Declaration of Independence. On the surface, what we see doesn’t relate to what we hear; we have just seen László arrive in America, and while we have heard the character speak in English, Hungarian, and Yiddish, it is unclear whether he understands Hebrew. The mismatch between what we see and what we hear shows just how much László is distanced from Israel, both geographically and ideologically. (A later scene even makes this distance explicit, when László brushes off moving to Israel and the notion that repatriation would make him a better Jew.) In this scene, the architect is at work, literally attempting to build himself a life in America, the country where he has chosen to start anew.
We hear Ben-Gurion proclaim that, with the founding of Israel, Jewish people now have the right to be “masters of their own fate,” but it does not seem like László views Israel as a necessary factor for his self-determination. Yet, while László might not need Israel, Israel needs László. Even if László cannot hear Ben-Gurion’s announcement, the audio foreshadows Israel’s presence in the film’s narrative and László’s destiny, except instead of allowing him to be “master of his own fate” like Ben-Gurion promises, Zionism ultimately disenfranchises László.
The Brutalist opens in 1947, the year the United Nations passed Resolution 181, calling for the partition of Mandatory Palestine into Arab and Jewish states. The towering epic follows László Toth (a role that won Adrien Brody his second Oscar), a Hungarian-Jewish Holocaust survivor and architect who arrives in America with a goal fit for his profession: to rebuild. László struggles to find a place in a post-Holocaust world, but—in an unorthodox depiction of the importance of Israel for Jewish refugees following the Holocaust—Corbet refutes the idea that László’s struggles are resolved by the creation of Israel. Instead, as Corbet increases Israel’s presence within the narrative, László’s struggle to rebuild only grows.
Indeed—spoilers ahead—once László himself finally emigrates to Israel, his agency in the film seems to end. In the epilogue of The Brutalist, we end with the image of László watching someone else tell what should be his own story at his own exhibit. Introducing her now elderly uncle at an exhibition in his honor in 1980s Venice, Zsófia explains how the Holocaust shaped his work. László, wheelchair-bound, does not speak; addressing her uncle directly, Zsófia even says “I speak for you now.”
She then presents what she thinks of as the thesis for László’s work and life: “It is about the destination, not the journey.”
After bearing witness to László’s journey for almost four hours, Zsófia’s words ring hollow. Being flung like a grenade across the Atlantic twice in a decade is hardly a tale of immigrant success, or of a man rising from the ashes of immense tragedy. And when he repatriates to Israel in a literal third act move after having initially rejected aliyah, it’s hard not to view his outcome as anything other than bleak.
To focus on just the creation of Israel—or the proverbial “destination”—as an endpoint to László’s story, the Holocaust, or even Jewish history at large erases the history of the Diaspora.
László has a right to seek out a peaceful, successful existence, and when the Toths realize America will not grant them this existence, they emigrate to the country that dangles safety and prosperity in front of the already targeted, traumatized demographic to which they pertain. Perhaps, in the abstract, then, “It is about the destination” might work as the message for László’s story, as he has regained recognition as an architect after his move to Israel. And yet, Corbet spends close to four hours detailing the harrowing circumstances that caused László to consider Israel at all. And while he does regain recognition as an architect, a move to Israel does not inherently align with László’s ideas of success. I would even argue that Corbet presents Israel’s existence not as a victory or a conquest, but as a consolation prize, or an attempt to erase László’s trauma.
For whom is rebuilding an opportunity, and for whom is it punishment? Is László’s suffering meaningful because it culminates in repatriation? Since it led to the State of Israel, do we view the Shoah as a means to an end, and was Israel thus always László’s fate? The Brutalist demonstrates that László does accept his final “destination” but only after first having been broken and having relinquished rebuilding on his own terms. By grappling with Jewish-gentile post-Holocaust relations and framing László’s repatriation to Israel as a reluctant yet inevitable decision, The Brutalist complicates the narrative of post-Shoah rebuilding and interrogates the idea of Israel as the “solution” to Jewish trauma.
Post-Holocaust Rebuilding: A Deconstructions of the Jewish American Dream
For a protagonist who creates for a living, recreating himself proves a nearly impossible project. László appears to get his chance when Philadelphia billionaire Harrison Lee Van Buren (Guy Pearce) commissions him to build a Christian community center in memory of Harrison’s mother. Inviting László to stay on his expansive property, Harrison also helps expedite the immigration to America of his wife, Erzsébet Toth, and niece, Zsófia. Still, rebuilding proves difficult: The trauma of war and trials of assimilation take their toll on the Toths. Even while László is desperate for architectural respect and recognition, as the project develops, Harrison demonstrates that the construction is anything but a vision between equals. The project culminates in a trip to Italy to purchase marble, and, in a harrowing scene, Harrison rapes László and berates him for wasting his potential.
A traumatized László returns to America. By then, Zsófia has moved to Israel, and when Erzsébet suggests joining their niece, László reluctantly accepts.
The beginning and the end of The Brutalist, though they are never shown onscreen, are, respectively, the Holocaust and the new State of Israel. And since some critics have called The Brutalist an epic, America—sandwiched between Europe and Israel—represents László in medias res. Given that his story does not end with America, then, this reality in and of itself represents a failed American dream and László’s failure to rebuild on his own terms.
The Brutalist is divided into part 1, part 2, and an epilogue. In part 1, Corbet suggests that the main obstacle in László’s quest to rebuild is America itself. Indeed, many of László’s failures as an architect have a parallel, personal failure, suggesting that American society renders rebuilding impossible for someone of László’s background.
One of the film’s first shots tracks László stepping out from the bowels of his steamship and rejoicing at the sight of the Statue of Liberty. At first, the shot feels dark, disorienting, and even aimless—perhaps mirroring the last few years of László’s life—but the band swells as he swings open the doors to take in New York. Corbet initially presents America as the literal and metaphorical light at the end of the tunnel, but he quickly offsets his hopeful visual cues. The statue is upside-down, an image often found in promotional material for the film. By warping the visual of the monument, Corbet warps the meaning of the monument, as well as foreshadowing László’s professional and personal fates in his new country. Traditionally a symbol of welcome for foreigners arriving by ship, the statue reversed now signals the impending adversities waiting for him. After leaving the ship, László visits a brothel, but as he proves impotent, the sexual encounter ends before it even begins. Already, László fails to perform in any capacity, and for Corbet to bookend this early sex scene with László’s rape by a Protestant further emphasizes László’s sexual emasculation as signifiers for his powerlessness and exploitation in America. In less than 15 minutes of its almost four-hour runtime, Corbet seals László’s fate before he even leaves New York.
Main poster for The Brutalist
In Philadelphia, László reunites with his cousin Attila, the only other male Jewish character and an assimilated juxtaposition to our fresh-off-the-boat protagonist. A fellow Budapest-born Jew, Attila arrived in America as a child. His wife, Audrey, is a gentile from Connecticut, and his radio announcer voice contrasts with László’s broken English (and perhaps suggests an element of performance to Attila’s personal presentation). At first, Attila welcomes László and employs him in his furniture shop, which he calls Miller and Sons, citing his perception that Americans love a “family business.”
But despite the family-oriented facade for customers, Attila neglects his own. After Harrison Van Buren initially halts the remodeling of his home library without paying the cousins for their work, Audrey persuades Attila to kick László out. We can speculate on why Attila feels the need to suppress his Jewish-Hungarian heritage in order to be successful in America, but he nonetheless places the made-up “Miller” family and his “shikseh” wife over his own flesh and blood. For László, this failed business venture implodes his fragile stability. Upon losing his first professional prospects in his new country, László also loses both his housing and contact with his only relatives in America.
Harrison becomes a local sensation due to his refurbished library and tracks down László—now aware of his former architectural prominence in Europe—and commissions the community center. The tide once again turns for László; part 2 even starts with László reuniting with Erzsébet and Zsófia and beginning construction on the community center. As László breaks ground there, he seems to also break ground in his life.
But over the second half of The Brutalist, Corbet demolishes László’s plans to rebuild in America. László is livid when Harrison’s developers make changes to the project without his approval. He insists on paying out of pocket, but when the train carrying László’s materials crashes and injures two brakemen, Harrison abandons the project in anticipation of legal fees. At first glance, László’s stubbornness evokes the capriciousness of the stereotypical obsessed artist, like real-life architectural counterpart Frank Lloyd Wright (whose masterpiece, Fallingwater, is also in Pennsylvania). However, Zsófia reveals in the epilogue that László intended for the dimensions of the community center—which was later completed, although over a decade after construction was halted—to be those of Buchenwald Concentration Camp, where he was a prisoner.
When László first arrives in America, he gets the chance to join the melting pot, and, like Attila, forge a new identity for himself. Yet, his first major project on American soil, a project that comes at considerable personal costs, becomes a monument to his past. Though László does find professional success, his old foundations remain and persist throughout his work, making a total rebuild of the self impossible.
Nobody expects László to forget about the Holocaust or become an overnight sensation. But, as the film continues, chances at success or self-determination even in the Diaspora grow smaller. At the end of part 2, he and Erzsébet, defeated, move to Israel, and the epilogue shows László and Zsófia (Erzsébet has already died) at a Venice exhibit in his honor. While the epilogue suggests that László does find the success he deserves, I find it tough to weigh László’s successes against the hardships he has endured prior to and during the film.
Perceptions of László’s success become even more complicated by introducing Israel not just as an entity but as a plot device. Although László has found success as an architect after having moved to Israel, the epilogue by no means suggests that László himself is rebuilt. Rather than presenting Israel as a proper opportunity for rebuilding and self-determination, Corbet depicts repatriation as a surface-level Band-Aid for the Toths’ suffering.
“IT Is the Destination”: The False Antidote of Aliyah
Since the film takes place in the decade after the Second World War, it shouldn’t come as a shock that The Brutalist grapples with the then-nascent State of Israel. Israel’s presence increases throughout the narrative, with the Toths ultimately moving from Pennsylvania to Jerusalem. But rather than framing László’s move as a light at the end of the tunnel, Corbet depicts Israel as an encroaching force that cancels out any accomplishments of László’s previous life.
One of the most significant pieces of Holocaust art is Art Spiegelman’s Pulitzer Prize–winning Maus anthology. As a high-profile Jewish American creator of Jewish art and “second-generation survivor”—a term referring to children of Holocaust survivors—Spiegelman possesses a certain authority on contemporary Jewish issues. Even he has publicly expressed skepticism towards Zionism. Over a decade ago, in an interview with Tablet, Spiegelman criticized how the Jewish community tends to reduce the Holocaust into a justification for the State of Israel and its actions. He further criticizes the community’s failure to see the irony of injustice begetting injustice:
The thing [Jews] can remember [about the Holocaust] is “Nobody ever liked you, they’re not going to like you, so fuck ’em. And therefore Israel is going to do whatever it has to do to survive, by God.” Or the other lesson could be, “We got shafted because we were a landless people without a power base and therefore, what? We create another landless people without a power base?”
Spiegelman makes two significant indictments. The first is critiquing how Zionist thinkers tend to use the mistreatment of European Jews to justify the mistreatment of Palestinians. The second, which pertains more to The Brutalist, is the fallacy that Israel is the only option for post-Holocaust Jews if they want to prosper, since we are unwelcome everywhere else. Antisemitism leads many to feel they have no other option but to leave for Israel, but the idea that Israel is the only place where Jews can prosper both dismisses the various accomplishments of Diaspora Jews—even in oppressive conditions—and furthers the occupation of Palestine by fearmongering Jewish populations.
Within the film, the first mention of Israel comes through Zsófia, who serves as the primary vehicle for Zionist rhetoric in The Brutalist. Zsófia begins part 2 as a mute, traumatized by her experience in the war. The first time she speaks onscreen is to announce that she is moving to Israel with her husband. The phrase she uses is “making aliyah,” a term referring specifically to Jews obtaining residency and citizenship in Israel, and to frame aliyah as the reason Zsófia breaks her silence stresses the importance of Israel to her character.
László is quick to dismiss aliyah, and the blocking around the kitchen table mirrors his and Zsófia’s opposing views on the subject. Zsófia, who believes that “our repatriation [to Israel] is our liberation,” sits on one side, and László, who scoffs at the notion that living outside of Israel makes him any less Jewish, sits opposite her. Though László and Erzsébet do eventually move to Jerusalem, this particular scene shows just how far Israel falls from László’s plans. While Zsófia venerates aliyah, László’s move to Israel, especially considering his initial feelings, feels more like a failure.
László’s reluctant repatriation is revealed, in the epilogue, as more than just a personal failing, but, perhaps, a political one. Specifically, it shows how Israel encroaches on the memory of the Shoah.
It is Zsófia who gives the remarks at László’s exhibition, explaining the influence of the Holocaust on his works. “It is the destination, not the journey,” she concludes. For one, prioritizing the hypothetical “destination” over the journey feels antithetical and even out-of-place in a film so concerned with the protagonist’s artistic process. After all, the events of his life inform the final product of the Van Buren Center. If only the destination matters, why bother giving the context about Buchenwald at all?
Moreover, “It is about the destination” becomes even more complicated because it is Zsófia who delivers this thesis. Since we have already seen her and László disagree—disagree, in fact, on the significance of one very particular destination—presenting Zsófia as the vehicle for this thesis undermines that very idea’s accuracy, at least in the context of László’s life and work.
Though she begins part 2 mute, Zsófia—not László—has the final word in The Brutalist. Zsófia’s final proclamation echoes her first major proclamation. Not only does Zsófia announce that she is moving to a new destination but she views this destination with such high esteem that she refers to the journey by its own special name. Israel renders aliyah significant; the destination consecrates the journey. When Erzsébet suggests they move to Israel at the end of part 2, she doesn’t say aliyah, because she does not see this potential move as a triumph. While the Toths’ repatriation might be a Zionist victory on paper, Corbet establishes that, for the Toths, repatriation is a last resort.
My intention is not to undermine any of László’s hardships; if anything, I find that Israel punctures László’s hardships rather than alleviates them. He lives through the Holocaust before the film even begins, and antisemitism follows him like a plague to America. One of the more chilling moments of The Brutalist is when Harry Jr., Harrison’s son, well after László begins the project and has seemingly gained the Van Burens’ respect, tells him he is merely “tolerated.” Harry Jr.’s sentiments are almost expected under the surface of a goy, yet they echo the treatment László receives from his own Jewish cousin who renounces his roots and shuns László from his home. Zsófia regards aliyah with considerable esteem, but The Brutalist more explicitly punishes Attila by making him an early antagonist for effectively suppressing his journey in service to his destination. Though Corbet leaves it to our imaginations why Attila chooses this degree of cultural self-amputation and rejects László for his lack thereof, we aren’t supposed to agree. So by the time we reach the epilogue, where Zsófia asks us to favor the destination over the journey, we have already seen this ideology deconstructed.
When Harrison first takes him to lunch, László is moved to find that images of his work are still available. Many of the sites of his projects survived the war. “My buildings were devised to endure such erosion…” he notes softly. László’s works are proof that the Nazis failed to erase him, and despite having left Europe, László’s buildings remain as proof of his meaningful contributions to Budapest. They are a testament both to his existence and to the Jews of Budapest, many of whom were wiped without a trace. Similarly, when he is driven to Jerusalem, the Van Buren Center—even if it is known by another’s name—stands as proof of his contributions to America. The fact that he creates lasting, impactful buildings is evidence of his talent and perseverance. Rather than showing László’s move to Israel as compensation for his experiences in the Diaspora, The Brutalist instead raises questions of what heights László could have reached without the threat of antisemitism forcing him to flee his home.
I can’t help but look at László and think of all the real-life Jewish architects, scientists, writers, and artists whose existences became resistance to bigotry. To focus on just the creation of Israel—or the proverbial “destination”—as an endpoint to László’s story, the Holocaust, or even Jewish history at large erases the history of the Diaspora. Perhaps worst of all, such a focus only on the “destination” treats Jewish suffering as a means to an end.
Having watched László’s journey, it is not difficult to contextualize his move to Israel, even with compassion. That said, regardless of his own beliefs, László’s repatriation, in the end, does fit into the Zionist agenda. Why would Zionists care if Israel isn’t László’s first choice if he repatriates anyway?
On the other hand, if Israel positions itself as the country where Jews can rebuild in the aftermath of the Shoah, where else would László go after the West fails to protect him? “The people here, they do not want us here,” a frustrated László tells Erzsébet during an argument, in reference to Americans. As Jews, as foreigners, and as survivors of a genocide, the presence of the Toths juxtaposes American midcentury campaigns to trudge forward after the Second World War. It’s a convenient solution for the Toths to then emigrate to the country that resulted from this war.
In a way, the only winners in The Brutalist are America and Israel: America because it doesn’t have to rehabilitate a Holocaust survivor, and Israel because it does. There is one less Jew in the Diaspora, and Israel wedges itself as the antidote to 20th-century antisemitism to justify the displacement of another disenfranchised group.
As of April 2025, neither Brady Corbet nor Adrien Brody have made clear statements about The Brutalist’s relationship to Zionism (or Israel/Palestine in general) since the beginning of the press tour, though Guy Pearce remains vocal in his. Regardless, The Brutalist takes a stand for human rights and against the institutions that facilitate—or even rely on—the dehumanization of everyday people. Upon realizing that the American Dream does not include him, László arguably has no other choice than to repatriate in order to rebuild, even if that decision begets more harm and does not diminish his own traumas.
Brutalism, the architectural style from which the film gets its name, is characterized by a minimalized approach to design, instead emphasizing the building’s material and structure. What you see is what you get; and, indeed, Corbet adds no flourishes to the immigrant experience or to post-Shoah realities. He brings out the flaws in the structures set in place to supposedly stabilize a post-Shoah world, even when it is clear that the function of these structures was always to maintain the subjugation and brutality from which they emerged. Unless we reexamine the plans, when these structures fall, we will fall with them. 
Featured image: Adrien Brody as László Toth in The Brutalist