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The Brutalist is a searing, unflinching critique of the American Dream, exposing the dehumanizing machinery of capitalism that exploits, humiliates, and destroys those who dare to dream within its confines. At its core, the film is less concerned with the journey than with the destination, reflecting a narrative structure that eschews traditional arcs of growth or redemption in favor of a relentless march toward an inevitable, devastating conclusion. This approach underscores the film’s central thesis: within the framework of American capitalism, the path one takes is irrelevant—only the end result matters, and that result is often ruinous. Brady Corbet, the director, crafts a work that is as unyielding as its subject matter. His vision is meticulous and uncompromising, creating a film that operates as a self-contained, autoconclusive work of art. Every element is deliberate, every detail accounted for, leaving no room for interpretation or addition. In this sense, the film itself becomes a brutalist creation, rigid in its structure and unflinching in its vision. Corbet’s direction mirrors the duality of the protagonist—a poor Jewish immigrant who becomes a tragic symbol of the system’s brutality—caught between creation and destruction, ambition and despair. The figure of the architect emerges as a recurring motif, not only in Corbet’s work but also in contemporary cinema, as seen in Coppola’s Megalopolis. Here, the architect is not just a creator of spaces but a symbol of ambition, control, and the hubris of modernity. Corbet uses this archetype to explore the tension between creativity and exploitation, a theme that resonates deeply in our current moment, where the forces of capitalism continue to shape—and often distort—the built environment and the lives within it. Visually, the film is a masterpiece. From the opening shot—a handheld camera framing the Statue of Liberty upside down—Corbet sets the tone for a world turned on its head. This striking imagery is sustained throughout, with every frame meticulously composed to reflect the stark, unyielding nature of its themes. The cinematography, production design, and lighting all contribute to a sense of oppressive beauty, making the film as visually compelling as it is intellectually provocative.

Alfonso Cuarón’s Disclaimer is a film that leaves you with a bittersweet aftertaste—a reminder that even the most brilliant minds can stumble. On paper, it has all the right ingredients: a poignant premise, a delicate and timely theme, and the unmistakable craftsmanship of a director who has given us masterpieces like Roma and Children of Men. Yet, somehow, the film feels like a beautifully constructed puzzle missing its final, vital piece. What’s most striking—and, in a way, comforting—is witnessing how even a genius like Cuarón can falter. Disclaimer is undeniably ambitious, tackling weighty ideas about memory, truth, and the fragility of human connection. The cinematography is, as expected, breathtaking, and the performances are nuanced and compelling. But for all its technical precision, the film struggles to breathe life into its narrative. It lacks the soul, the emotional core that makes Cuarón’s best work so profoundly moving. The film’s central theme is a delicate one, the kind that demands authenticity and care. There’s no room for missteps when dealing with such raw, human material. And yet, Disclaimer feels oddly detached, as if it’s observing its characters from a distance rather than immersing us in their world. It’s a reminder that even the most skilled artists can sometimes miss the mark, and that’s okay. There’s something strangely comforting in knowing that perfection is not the goal—it’s the humanity behind the art that truly matters. In the end, Disclaimer is a fascinating misfire—a film that dares to aim high but falls short of its own ambitions. It’s a testament to Cuarón’s talent that even his missteps are worth watching, but it’s also a poignant reminder that even the greatest storytellers can sometimes lose their way.