Cinema likes to pretend it's still making "event" movies. You know the type. They usually involve a lot of CGI capes or maybe a legacy sequel where an aging star puts on a fedora one last time. But every few years, something like The Brutalist shows up. It’s a three-and-a-half-hour behemoth shot on 70mm VistaVision that demands you sit still, watch an intermission, and contemplate the architectural soul of post-war America.
It’s a lot.
And if you’ve been following the critical conversation around Brady Corbet’s epic, one name keeps popping up: Adam Nayman. Nayman isn't just another guy with a Letterboxd account. He’s the critic who often acts as the de facto translator for these kinds of "big swings" in cinema. Whether he’s writing for The Ringer or breaking down the "canon-seeking" ambition of the film on The Big Picture podcast, Nayman has become the primary lens through which many people are viewing this movie.
The "Instant Masterpiece" Trap
There is a specific kind of pressure that comes when a movie wins the Silver Lion at Venice. Critics start using words like "towering," "monumental," and "visionary" before the general public even knows how to spell the director's name.
Nayman’s take on The Brutalist is fascinating because he doesn't just bow down to the scale. He’s a guy who loves the "Masterworks" (he literally wrote the book on Paul Thomas Anderson’s masterworks). Yet, with The Brutalist, he’s pointed out something that most people miss: the movie is desperately trying to be a classic.
It’s "aiming for the canon," as he puts it.
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Think about that for a second. Most movies just try to entertain you or maybe win an Oscar. Corbet is trying to build a monument. The story follows László Tóth, a Hungarian Jewish architect played by Adrien Brody. He survives the Holocaust, lands in America, and gets entangled with a wealthy, slightly terrifying benefactor played by Guy Pearce.
Why the Architecture Matters
Brutalism isn't just a style of building with lots of gray concrete. It’s a philosophy. It’s about honesty in materials. It’s raw. It’s heavy.
Nayman often draws parallels between the way Tóth builds his community center in the film and the way Corbet builds the film itself. It’s a "chapterized" structure. It uses an intermission not just for a bathroom break, but as a structural pivot.
Some people find this pretentious. Honestly? They might be right. But Nayman argues that the "craftsmanship" is so high that you can’t just dismiss it. Even if you think the movie feels a bit hollow at its core—a criticism Nayman has actually toyed with—you can't deny the sheer work on display.
The Problem with "Great American Movies"
We have this obsession with the "Great American Novel" or the "Great American Movie." We want every big drama to be The Godfather or There Will Be Blood.
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The Brutalist basically wears those influences on its sleeve. It’s about:
- The immigrant experience (the "American Dream" trope).
- The corruption of art by capital.
- The physical toll of genius.
Nayman’s critique often centers on whether the film actually says something new about these topics or if it’s just a very expensive, very beautiful remix. There’s a scene involving a "baffling plot beat" in the second half—no spoilers here, but it involves a quarry—that has split the audience.
Is it a metaphor for the "rape of the artist" by the wealthy? Or is it just a shocking twist meant to jolts a long movie back to life?
The Nayman Methodology
If you want to understand why Adam Nayman is the guy to read for this, you have to look at his history. He doesn’t just review movies; he contextualizes them. He’s written books on:
- The Coen Brothers (looking at the "circularity of violence").
- David Fincher (the obsession with procedure).
- Paul Thomas Anderson (the lonely American dreamer).
When he looks at The Brutalist, he’s seeing all these threads come together. He sees Corbet—an actor-turned-director who clearly spent a lot of time watching European art-house films—trying to synthesize that style into a massive American epic.
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Is it Actually "Brutal"?
The movie is 215 minutes long. That’s a commitment.
The sound design is loud. The score by Daniel Blumberg is jarring. It’s designed to make you feel the weight of the concrete. It’s "enervating," a word Nayman uses to describe films that wear you down on purpose.
Some critics, like Peter Bradshaw at The Guardian, came out of the theater "light-headed and euphoric." Others feel like they’ve been lectured for four hours.
The reality is probably somewhere in the middle. The film is a technical masterpiece. Adrien Brody gives a performance that feels like a spiritual sequel to The Pianist. But as Nayman suggests, there’s a "checklist-y" approach to the themes. Jewishness, heroin addiction, architectural theory, class warfare—it’s all there, neatly organized into chapters.
Actionable Insights for Your Next Watch
If you’re planning to tackle The Brutalist, don't just go in expecting a standard biopic. Here is how to actually digest a movie this "heavy":
- Watch for the "Verticality": As Nayman noted with the Coen brothers, some movies move horizontally (plot), while others move vertically (depth). This movie is vertical. It’s about the heights of buildings and the depths of the human psyche.
- Pay Attention to the Benefactor: Guy Pearce’s character isn't just a villain. He’s a representation of how wealth tries to "buy" taste and legacy.
- Don't Skip the Intermission: If you're watching at home, give yourself that 15-minute break. The movie is designed to have a "before" and "after."
Adam Nayman’s writing reminds us that cinema doesn't have to be "likable" to be important. The Brutalist might be a "monumental parable about false promises," or it might just be a very long movie about a guy who likes concrete. Either way, it’s the kind of film that forces us to talk about what "greatness" actually looks like in 2026.
To get the most out of the experience, read Nayman’s full review on The Ringer before you go. It’ll give you the vocabulary to explain why you either loved it or why you’re still confused by that ending. Focus on the relationship between the "materials" (the 70mm film) and the "structure" (the script). That’s where the real movie is happening.