Adrien Brody as László Tóth. Credit: Lol Crawley. Image courtesy of A24

Brutalist architecture is raw, powerful, emotional, and unapologetically honest. It rejects ornamentation and architectural devices designed to make its inhabitants feel comfortable, instead creating a visceral, primal experience. Brutalism is a feeling—a bold statement that doesn’t need to justify itself. Composed of raw, unrefined materials, it strips architecture down to its essence, evoking reactions that are often as extreme as the style itself. These are some of the reasons why I personally love brutalism, and perhaps also why I found myself captivated by The Brutalist.

To delve deeper into the mindset of the fictional architect, László Tóth, and his work, I spoke with Adrien Brody, the film’s lead actor, and Judy Becker, its visionary production designer. Their insights illuminate the emotional and symbolic layers behind this unique cinematic endeavor.

The Brutalist is an almost four-hour film that follows László Tóth (Adrien Brody), a Hungarian-Jewish architect and Holocaust survivor, as he rebuilds his life in postwar America. Trained at the Bauhaus and once celebrated in Europe, Tóth arrives in Philadelphia with nothing. He finds his talent and resilience is not enough, as he struggles with displacement, addiction, and prejudice. He is eventually commissioned by industrialist Harrison Lee Van Buren (Guy Pearce) to design the Institute—a monumental community center that becomes both his artistic triumph and a haunting reflection of his past. Contrary to what many viewers may expect, the movie is less about architecture than it is about ambition, spirit, trauma, and survival. The cast delivers powerful performances, while Daniel Blumberg’s score, Judy Becker’s layered production design, Lol Crawley’s immersive cinematography, and the rare use of VistaVision collectively create a monumental experience.

When I suggest that viewers might be surprised at how little The Brutalist is truly about architecture, it stems from a curious disconnect. Director Brady Corbet and his co-writer, Mona Fastvold, have frequently cited their personal connections to architecture—Corbet through architect relatives and his own view of filmmaking as akin to architectural design. Panels and interviews surrounding the film have devoted significant time to discussions of architecture and brutalism, yet these themes are not as directly explored in the film as one might expect. Instead, architecture serves as a backdrop—a metaphorical canvas for the story’s deeper focus on ambition, trauma, and the human spirit.

At the crowded after-party following the Los Angeles premiere, I spoke with Adrien Brody about his personal connection to the character of László Tóth. Our conversation touched on a shared history: both of our mothers escaped Hungary during the 1956 revolution as children. This familial connection to the immigrant and refugee experience drew Brody to the role, as he empathized with Tóth’s struggles and aspirations. He also reflected on the idea of legacy, connecting with Tóth as an artist striving for permanence in his work—a theme that resonates with Brody’s own life, not only as an acclaimed actor in film and theater but also as a painter seeking to leave a meaningful, lasting impact.

Creating László Tóth’s architectural legacy for The Brutalist seems like an almost impossible challenge. How does one design a body of work that convincingly represents a fictional architect of exceptional talent—a Bauhaus-trained visionary whose designs reflect years of dedication? It’s a task that requires talent, technical expertise and a deep understanding of the character’s personal and professional journey. I spoke with production designer Judy Becker via Zoom a few days after the Los Angeles premiere to learn more about how this was accomplished. Becker’s thoughtful approach to building Tóth’s imagined portfolio revealed the intricate layers behind the film’s striking visual and emotional impact.

Judy Becker, an acclaimed production designer whose work has earned accolades including nominations for an Academy Award (American Hustle) and BAFTAs (Carol), doesn’t have a formal background in architecture. However, her passion for the field, particularly brutalism, began at a young age. Growing up, her earliest exposure came from her uncle, a mid-century Danish architect, whose architectural models she often dreamed of using as dollhouses. Becker credits her self-directed exploration of architecture and design as a source of invaluable knowledge, one that she believes might rival traditional education in its inspiration and depth. During our conversation, she frequently referenced Tadao Ando, a self-taught architect whose brutalist sensibilities and unconventional path into architecture seemed to resonate with her own approach.

How does one design a body of work that convincingly represents a fictional architect of exceptional talent—a Bauhaus-trained visionary whose designs reflect years of dedication?

When I asked Judy Becker about her familiarity with the Bauhaus and brutalism prior to working on The Brutalist, her enthusiasm was evident. “Brutalism, for sure,” she said. “I mean, I knew about the Bauhaus and was interested in it, but I loved brutalism. I loved brutalist architecture—I had loved it for many, many, many years, well before anyone else loved it.” Her love for the style was secondary, however, to her desire to collaborate with Brady Corbet. “I wanted to work with Brady. I was following his work. I’d seen Childhood of a Leader. I told my agent, I want to work with this guy—he’s genius.” When she learned, over 10 years ago, that Corbet’s next project was titled The Brutalist, she read the script and immediately thought, “It was like it was a joke, how much it seemed made for me.”

For The Brutalist, Becker was tasked with designing the fictional architectural legacy of László Tóth, including the Institute, a sprawling community center with a chapel, gymnasium, and library, as well as earlier works, such as a modernist library redesign and furniture that reflected Tóth’s Bauhaus roots. Each design needed to feel authentic to the character’s evolution and resonate with the film’s emotional and thematic core, while also being practically achievable within the constraints of the production.

I wanted the Institute to reflect both Tóth’s genius and the trauma he carried" - Judy Becker

Judy didn’t reference specific architects or designers when designing László Tóth’s body of work. “I didn't look at many architectural references because I didn't want to be influenced by too much. I wanted to come up with something on my own,” she shared with me. She did speak about a few areas of inspiration and research for this project. She spoke fondly of Marcel Breuer’s Whitney Museum in New York, a building she considers one of the most striking examples of brutalist architecture. “It’s just so powerful and grounded,” she noted, highlighting its raw materiality and minimalist forms as key influences.

Becker also turned to more unsettling sources, including the architecture of concentration camps. The rigid layouts and confined spaces of these sites informed the Institute’s stark interior design, particularly its low ceilings and narrow passageways. “I wanted the Institute to reflect both Tóth’s genius and the trauma he carried,” she explained, layering emotional significance into the structure.

Another reference point was Harry Weese's Washington, D.C., subway system. Its steep staircases and vast, cavernous interiors inspired the Institute’s underground elements, which Judy described as “a reflection of confinement and the struggle toward freedom.”

Symbolism also played a significant role in the Institute’s chapel design. Becker drew on the cross motif common in Central and Eastern European architecture, designing a space where light would form a cross visible only from specific vantage points. She recalled a childhood memory of a synagogue shaped like a Star of David, visible only from above, which inspired her to incorporate hidden meaning into the building’s design.

One question that lingered in my mind as I spoke with Judy Becker was whether the designs for the Institute—László Tóth’s magnum opus—were presented in their entirety on screen. Could the audience fully grasp the scope of such a monumental creation, or were they only offered glimpses of its parts, leaving the whole to the imagination?

When I asked Becker about this, she acknowledged that much of the Institute’s design was intentionally fragmented in its presentation. “You don’t see the entire building in the film,” she explained, “but I designed it as a fully realized structure. Every detail had to make sense, even if it wasn’t shown.” This approach reflects the film’s broader aesthetic, where raw, incomplete elements invite interpretation rather than dictating meaning.

For Becker, the decision to show the Institute in pieces aligned with both the narrative and practical constraints. “The story is more about the emotional weight of Tóth’s journey than about showcasing his work in a traditional way,” she said. Still, the design process was meticulous. “The Institute could exist as a real building. Every element was functional, but it also carried symbolic layers—like the chapel’s cross motif and the confined spaces reflecting his past.”

In an ironic parallel with the field of architecture, The Brutalist was created on a budget that would fall into the “low-budget” category by industry standards. While I’ve heard estimates ranging from $6 million to $10 million, both Brady Corbet and Judy Becker have confirmed the figure was closer to $6 million. Considering that the project spanned nearly a decade from conception to release, a significant amount of creativity was required to stretch every dollar. When I asked Judy how this impacted her work, she explained that the budgetary constraints forced her to approach the designs with practicality in mind, balancing ambition with feasibility. “We couldn’t build the whole Institute,” she said, “but we had to design it as if it were real. We built specific sections—like the chapel staircase and the interior spaces—and used models and creative framing to suggest the scale and scope of the building.”

She also recalled how even seemingly minor requests, like additional plywood for furniture construction, required budgetary approval. “We had to ask for overages on plywood,” she said with a laugh. “It’s not the kind of thing you expect when you’re creating these grand designs.” Despite these challenges, she expressed pride in what the team accomplished, noting that the limitations often fueled more innovative solutions.

The Brutalist is not a film about architecture—it’s a film of architecture, in its raw emotional force, unapologetic honesty, and unflinching ability to challenge its audience

The Brutalist is, much like the architectural style it nods to, bound to divide its audience. Just as brutalist architecture provokes strong reactions depending on the viewer’s taste and expectations, so too does this film. For architects, or those lured in by the film’s title and pre-release publicity focusing heavily on architecture, there may be disappointment at the lack of detailed focus on architecture or historical accuracy. But to view The Brutalist through such a lens might miss the point. This is not a film about architecture—it’s a film of architecture, in its raw emotional force, unapologetic honesty, and unflinching ability to challenge its audience.

The Brutalist is a bold cinematic achievement that reflects the raw, unfiltered spirit of its titular architectural style. Its ambition, emotional depth, and powerful direction and cinematography make it a unique contribution to the genre—one that challenges viewers to confront both its artistry and its imperfections. Much like the architecture it evokes, The Brutalist is unapologetically itself: divisive, weighty, and unforgettable. It may not be for everyone, but for those willing to engage with its daring vision, it leaves a lasting impression.