The Brutalist Ending Explained: A Monument to the Hollow American Dream

Adrien Brody as architect László Tóth in The Brutalist

Brady Corbet’s The Brutalist emerged as one of the most divisive films of the year, drawing both acclaim and criticism for its ambitious scope and unflinching themes.

The 215-minute epic, starring Adrien Brody as architect László Tóth, had a strong presence on the festival circuit, with critics praising its striking cinematography and intricate storytelling.

Despite its challenging runtime, the film has sparked widespread discussion, particularly regarding its ambiguous ending and overarching critique of the American Dream.

The Brutalist Ending Explained: A Vision Stripped of Meaning

László Tóth’s final moment is not one of triumph but of quiet devastation.

He stands before his completed architectural project, a structure that was meant to be the culmination of his artistic vision, only to find it stripped of individuality.

What was supposed to be a bold statement of artistic freedom is now a corporate monument, its edges softened, its defiance erased.

The realisation sinks in—his work no longer belongs to him. His career, his ideals, even his personal struggles have been absorbed into a system that rewards utility over artistry.

The final shot lingers on his face, weary and hollow, mirroring the brutalist aesthetic that once symbolised defiance but now stands as a testament to compromise and control.

This conclusion reinforces the film’s central message: the American Dream, particularly for immigrants and artists, is often a mirage.

László arrives in the United States believing that talent and resilience will be enough to build a legacy, but by the end, he is merely another cog in the machine, his creative voice drowned out by those with more power.

The opening scene, with its inverted Statue of Liberty, foreshadows this idea—what should be a beacon of hope is instead a symbol of something distorted, a promise that was never quite real.

How The Brutalist Critiques Power and Art

László’s story is not just about one man’s artistic struggles; it’s about how power dictates artistic expression.

Adrien Brody, Guy Pearce in The Brutalist A24/Courtesy Everett Collection

From the moment he arrives in America, his work is shaped not by his own vision but by the financial backing of Harrison Van Buren Sr., who dictates what gets built, how it looks, and what it represents.

László’s designs, meant to be statements of defiance, are repurposed into monuments to capitalism, standing as proof that creativity, no matter how radical, can always be co-opted by those who control the resources.

This critique extends beyond architecture. The Brutalist uses László’s journey to explore the broader struggles of immigrant artists—individuals who come to America with grand ambitions, only to find that their work is reshaped, repackaged, and sold by those with more influence.

The film doesn’t present a singular villain; rather, it highlights a system that rewards conformity and punishes defiance in ways that are subtle but irreversible.

László’s American Dream: The Illusion of Control

For much of the film, László clings to the idea that his talent will grant him control over his destiny.

Harrison Van Buren Sr. funds his architectural dreams, but every step forward comes with a compromise.

The final act delivers the harshest realisation—he was never in control at all.

His designs are no longer his own. The artistic integrity he fought to preserve has been diluted, not by force, but by a slow, insidious process of co-option.

Rather than delivering a dramatic downfall, the film presents a slow erosion of identity. László, standing before his completed project, is dwarfed by its scale.

The cinematography emphasises his insignificance, making him appear small, lost within the world he helped build.

He has achieved everything he set out to do, yet none of it belongs to him.

Erzsébet’s Perspective: The Emotional Fallout

Felicity Jones as Erzsébet in The Brutalist A24

Erzsébet, throughout the film, serves as a counterpoint to László’s idealism.

Where he sees opportunity, she sees reality. She watches as his dream is chipped away, as he compromises his values, as the life they envisioned together becomes something unrecognisable.

By the end, her silence speaks volumes. She stands beside him, looking at what was supposed to be their shared legacy, but there is nothing left to recognise.

Her reaction is not one of shock or anger, but of weary acceptance. She knew this was coming long before László did.

The dream they built together has been compromised beyond repair, and all that remains is the realisation that it was never truly theirs to begin with.

What The Brutalist Ending Says About Power and Art

The film’s conclusion doesn’t just tell the story of one man’s failed dream—it paints a larger picture of how power operates in the world of art.

László’s fate mirrors the experiences of many immigrant artists who come to America with aspirations, only to find themselves bending to the will of patrons and investors.

His monument isn’t a testament to his talent. It’s a monument to the forces that ultimately own and shape artistic expression.

By the time the film reaches its conclusion, there is no redemption arc, no final act of defiance.

There is only the quiet, devastating realisation that even the most radical visions can be absorbed into a system that prioritises control over creativity.

László doesn’t lose everything in one grand moment—he loses it slowly, piece by piece, until there is nothing left that is truly his own.