In a week where Trump is trying to overturn birthright citizenship and seems committed to attacking the immigrants that built the United States, a film examining the violence that underscores the idealistic American Dream feels necessary. Equal parts historical epic and allegorical tragedy, Brady Corbet’s The Brutalist is an ambitious 3.5-hour journey through the life of László Tóth, a Hungarian-Jewish architect whose dreams and sacrifices illuminate the harrowing complexities of artistic ambition in America.

The film opens with a staggering sequence: László (Adrien Brody) emerges from the shadowy depths of a ship’s hold, the cries and clamour of displaced lives echoing around him. This disorienting scene evokes the trauma of the Holocaust without direct exposition, relying on sound design and stark visuals to place us in László’s shoes as he steps into an upside-down world - a symbolic, flipped Statue of Liberty looming in the distance. It’s the type of bold visual metaphor that comes to define The Brutalist, translating history and emotion through audacious visuals and scale.

Set in post-World War II America, the story follows László as he struggles to establish himself as an architect while reuniting with his wife Erzsébet (Felicity Jones) and niece Zsófia (Raffey Cassidy). László’s cousin Attila (Alessandro Nivola) offers him a foothold in a furniture shop in Pennsylvania, where the family dynamics illustrate both the personal and political aspects of the immigrant experience. Issues of assimilation and ambition sit beside betrayal, and moments of tenderness puncture deep tragedies. The American Dream is a double-edged sword; a symbol of boundless opportunity and a relentless mechanism that can easily crush the dreamers it inspires.

Adrien Brody delivers a performance of simmering intensity, embodying the quiet desperation of a man who is haunted by loss, but is nonetheless propelled by a singular vision and desire to shape the world around him. Dour, tentative, and perpetually on the brink of self-destruction, László is a functional heroin addict whose struggles with personal demons mirror the brutalist aesthetic. While Brody’s portrayal has its moments of excess, his larger-than-life emotional swings fit the film’s operatic tone.

Complementing Brody’s performance is Guy Pearce as eccentric megalomaniac Harrison Lee Van Buren, the film’s standout character. A symbol of America’s seductive, exploitative power, Van Buren is a wealthy patron who commissions László to design an audacious monument to his late mother. Van Buren’s charm masks sinister undertones, and his interactions with László become a chilling exploration of how capitalism poisons art.

The support cast is excellent. Nivola delivers a riveting portrayal of the strains and ethical compromises of assimilation, while Joe Alwyn and Stacy Martin personify the emptiness of inherited privilege. Even minor characters are meticulously crafted, contributing to a world that feels as oppressive as the concrete walls of László’s buildings.

Thematically, The Brutalist grapples with weighty and unresolved ideas: the immigrant experience, the tension between art and commerce, and the corrosive nature of capitalism. Corbet’s direction is masterful, layering these themes with visual and narrative ingenuity. The film uses architecture as a poignant metaphor for László’s journey, with each structure he creates mirroring his quest for purpose and legacy in an unwelcoming world.

Divided into chapters with evocative titles like ‘The Enigma of Arrival’ and scored by Daniel Blumberg’s monumental music, the film recalls classic epics while pushing modern boundaries. Its brutalist aesthetic, both in architecture and narrative, is unrelenting, confronting viewers with stark truths about the cost of creativity and ambition.

The Brutalist does occasionally flatter in its indulgence. Brody and Jones’s performances sometimes strain under the weight of the film’s melodramatic tendencies, and the story’s metaphors can feel heavy-handed. The second half of the film is choppy and disjointed, with unclear timelines diminishing the emotional impact.

That said, The Brutalist is a towering testament to independent filmmaking. Made on a shoestring budget by Hollywood standards, it rivals the grandeur and ambition of big studio epics while delivering a deeply personal story. It’s a film that acts as a haunting and prescient warning against trusting a capitalistic society to deliver people’s dreams equally. A quote from Goethe in the prologue holds the film’s stark message (that feels like it may have historically addressed marginalised people but Trump’s supporters would also do well to heed by): “None are more hopelessly enslaved than those who falsely believe themselves free.”

• In cinemas now. Watch the trailer below: