It's Brutal Out Here

but cinema is back baby !!!!

After a long day spent in my apartment cleaning, purging, packing for an upcoming race, and all those hunker-down weekend tasks, I decided there was no better night to go see Brady Corbet’s The Brutalist. What could be bad about sitting in a theater for 4 hours after being holed up in your apartment for double that?

I’m usually an Alamo Drafthouse regular, but for an experience like The Brutalist I knew I had to pull out all the stops — an 8pm screening on a Saturday, on 70mm at the only acceptable place to do it: the Village East Angelika (in the indomitable Jaffe Art Theater).

I snapped a photo from across the street, thinking “hello old friend.” I’ve spent days worth of time in that theater seeing free screenings, 70mm events, Rocky Horror on Halloween, and even a few wholesome watches in the lower level theaters with my mom when I was in college. Aside from the screening of Steve Jobs in 2015, I don’t think I’ve ever experienced a line to get into this theater the way I did for The Brutalist. Maybe it was a typical Saturday for Village East, but maybe The Brutalist is doing something bigger for film that hasn’t been touched in a while.

I commented to a friend today that I think what has brought The Brutalist to the heights it has already reached in New York is that this season there are no Nolan or Tarantino fanfares, nowhere for the petulant film-bro energy to manifest itself this year, so this has become the vessel for every young man in NYC to feel smart and edgy for seeing something ‘bold.’ What is unfortunately true of this film in particular is just how enthralling and overcoming cinematic experiences can be - even at a 4 hour run time.

I settled into my seat in the last row with a small popcorn, a large bottle of water, and a beer hoping to slip away into the anonymity of the Jaffe Art Theater, but, instead, made casual conversation with the three people beside me. There were no previews or trailers, the projector flipped on and started flickering as everyone bustled around taking their seats; their movements matching the editing on screen showcasing New York as Laszlo arrived on his journey. It was a perfect moment.

After ruminating on 2024 and feeling the meltedness of coming undone in order to re-solidify, The Brutalist offered a moment to stay in that goop-like state; to understand what the artistic journey is, what any journey entails, and when the odds feel (and are) stacked against you, what do you do it all for.

A running friend and I lamented on our experiences watching this film as well as our running journeys this morning; The Brutalist tears down everything that a runner believes. Our credo is often something resembling, “it’s not the destination, it’s the journey,” or “race day is the celebration of your training.” These ideals remind us that what we’re doing right now, the miles and fatigue, have a larger purpose; ultimately we learn the most in these times, and this is the real importance of the undertaking. The Brutalist effectively says “it doesn’t matter what you had to do to get here, you got here.”

Putting these ideas in contrast— there’s a weird middle ground where our psyche gets muddied and we understand that effectively we choose a destination we are trying to reach, and somehow the journey tests us in any possible way (un)imaginable. Running says the race is, but isn’t the point; The Brutalist says it was always the point and the suffering is negligible for the destination.

I’m going to let that sit for a moment - Running says the race is, but isn’t the point; The Brutalist says it was always the point and the suffering is negligible for the destination.

Laszlo is tested, trial after trial, good fortune followed by horrid misfortune and abuse of so many kinds. It is a story about suffering for one’s art, the many ways one carries and manages the pain, and in the end it’s almost like none of it wasn’t worth it because he got the longevity and the career he so deserved. These harrowing moments on screen, the depravity brought upon him and his family, all seemingly washed away by an award at the end. It’s jarring in every aspect, even technically. As a runner, it confounded me about the levels of pain athletes put themselves through in the name of ‘success.’

After a marathon, or several (as I’m about to complete my 11th this weekend), there’s a quick state of euphoria and a few days of soreness to follow. Most people don’t complete even one, and those who stop at one know what they’ve done and choose to stop. The pain has been likened to childbirth or worse, there’s a place (mentally and physically) many runners know as ‘the pain cave,’ and yet we continue. The difference, however, is that we acknowledge this cycle of pain and we can stop it at any moment. But much like creating art, why would we?