Brutal Propaganda
THE ART HOUSE crowd is thrilled — well, the effete pansies are not too happy that they have to sit on their keisters for three-plus hours but, à la Vincent van Gogh, does not one have to suffer for art? The movie is The Brutalist and at the Venice Film Festival, the “beautiful people” (who are mostly the opposite of beautiful), hot off losing their collective loads last year over the rank propaganda film The Zone of Interest, now have another Jew movie (this one admittedly in a more minor key) to stand up and give an ovation — and some “prestigious awards” — to.
The Brutalist tells the story of a fictitious Holocaust survivor (is there any other kind?) who comes to America, as it seems damn near every so-called survivor did. (They somehow all managed to miraculously escape the evil clutches of the big meanie Adolf Hitler and his sadistic henchmen Heydrich, Himmler, and Goebbels, and crawl on their bellies into our formerly pristine homeland. For some odd reason they did not think to trek to Somalia, Outer Mongolia, or El Salvador where they could have pined for the dark man; no, it was nothing but the (once) good old US of A that they had their beady eyes on, so as to beef up the numbers of kikes here, as they were already on the point of tipping the scales in favor of themselves, and another 200% or so couldn’t hurt.)
The Brutalist is being compared to The Godfather, that is, a summation of a group’s history in America in the grand sense, and the summing up of an era. A man escapes — just in the nick of time — being burnt to cinders in an oven alongside Sheckey Greenfield, and shows up at (of all places) Ellis Island — where they should have had a sign reading “abandon all hope all White people who enter here,” as the scum that floated in from Europe in the horrifying form of the Yid made our country into the lowest circle of Hell. When that man (played by big Jew Adrien Brody, who is said to have wept like a woman when the movie got thunderous applause from the wicked jet-setters) comes to America he becomes an architect commissioned to build a library in the Brutalist style. Naturally issues of “assimilation” and the unjustness of America come to the fore (it’s about a Jew, after all) and the library looks suspiciously like one of those German labor camps falsely labeled “death camps” by the world’s champion liars.
The slavering Jewish press tells us this film is about the big issues of American history, and art and such; but it’s not. It’s about Jews.
The Brutalist is a towering paean to the American dream, in all its force and folly. Set over several decades, Brady Corbet’s post-World War II immigrant saga is — like the architectural achievements of its protagonist — constructed with meticulous consideration, resulting in a work of multifaceted technique and piercing humanity. The film, arresting from its first frames, spends three-and-a-half engrossing hours on the tale of László Tóth (Adrien Brody), a fictitious Jewish Hungarian architect and survivor of the Holocaust, whose arrival in America yields both rigorous struggle and tempting opportunity.
To repeat — the phrase “fictitious survivor” really gives the game away, does it not? It’s the kind of phrase that one has to have an awfully hard heart not to burst out laughing upon hearing it. And when one says that anything in this degraded world is a “towering paean” to anything other than the White race, color me suspicious. It’s probably a movie that is decently made and it has a “long story” — but that does not make it powerful; that just means the Jews were able to drum up scads of money and the director was not a retard. You have to look at the story and why they tell it. Sure, there’s no mad German picking off Jews from his bedroom window just for the hay of it, and there’s no bawling little brat in red while the rest is black and white, and it’s not the ugly and affected Meryl Streep forced to decide between her children by a (fictional) “sadistic Nazi” — no, it’s more subtle than that, but that does not mean it’s subtle. It’s the “piercing humanity” that raises the hackles and makes me want to stick a finger down my throat — there’s nothing piercing about this tripe and as for the “humanity,” who cares? A dirty Jew (fictional, mind you) comes to America and finds he has to struggle a bit due to being a Jew. Boo hoo. It’s nothing to write home to Mother about, that’s for sure.
It is not a forward-thinking film like Orson Welles’ Kane — but this is, in fact, a key piece of its aesthetic and thematic puzzle. The immediacy with which it conjures past masterpieces is part of its enormous thesis on the purpose of art, which it smuggles beneath a soul-stirring saga of survival, one that exists in conversation with, of all things, Ayn Rand’s The Fountainhead. They become about leaving the past behind and shaking off the influences of Graeco-Roman styles, in favor of a form-flows-from-function approach. This function-first belief, though it has older origins, was notably espoused by Adolf Hitler, who abhorred stupid imitations of the past.
(In her book, Rand was going to use Nietzsche’s quote as to the noble soul having reverence for itself, but scotched it due to the philosopher’s supposed “irrationalism.”)
They want to wrap this up in an “architecture” story, so let’s tell it as it is. In The Fountainhead we have a Jew tell a bona fide story of a noble Aryan — and creative thinker and great artist. But let’s take that Hitler reference seriously — as we always should. Hitler himself was an architect and there is no doubt that Hitler was not a traditionalist; in fact he was a radical and free thinker in every aspect. He knew that the culture of the West had become sclerotic and he wanted to make a clean sweep of it and (as Ezra Pound said) make it new. But his architectural style, though related very distantly to Brutalism, was in a totally separate category. It was monumentalism. The figures and buildings that his artists crafted were grand and imposing, but they were not brutal. They were majestic. And Howard Roark, Rand’s protagonist, for all his (fictional) genius, was a loner and an individualist, whereas the art that flourished under Hitler was communal and was for the Volk, for the people — something Rand abhorred. As for Brutalism, well, think of rank utilitarianism, in-your-face rank utilitarianism of the worst and most pretentious sort, and concrete slabs of no character at all. It’s squat and ugly and without art — come to think of it, it is quite Jewish in spirit — the blank and monolithic stare looking back at you in a drone world.
The Brutalist begins in 1947, in a time of reconstruction and uncertainty. When László arrives on Ellis Island — an intimate, disorienting scene that begins in his darkened ship bunk and moves above deck — his wife Erzsébet (Felicity Jones) and niece Zsófia (Raffey Cassidy), from whom he was separated during the war, remain stuck in the Soviet Union. All the while, the film also explores the fraught corners of post-World War II Jewish identity in the West. From the moment László arrives on America’s shores, he’s presented with questions of assimilation. His cousin Attila has married a Catholic woman, Audrey (Emma Laird), and has converted. The store he runs is called Miller and Sons, even though his last name is (or was) Molnár, the Hungarian equivalent — and as László quips, ‘You have no sons!’ Before long, news of the infant state of Israel reaches him, leading to other Jewish characters in his vicinity wrestling with their rights and obligations.
They really do want us to see this as the new “American Saga” for our age; Jews are the new American success story, the new immigrant, the ones that need to be enshrined in lore; and what better symbol than the rusty old Statue of Liberty (the one ruined by the noxious poem by that noxious Jew glued to it some years after it was built), which is invoked here for the eighty-nine thousandth time. I must admit, though, that it is inadvertently appropriate that the Jew emerges from the dark hold of the ship, as a rat might slither up from its cellar. As for the “fraught corner” of Jewish identity in America in the 1950s, you can be sure those are code words for the “rise of anti-Semitism”; never mind that in 1880 the Jews (as they will be the first to vociferously tell you) were in mortal peril as the White world of Europe was (as the Jews will also be the first to tell you) on another of its periodic quests to kill Jews en masse (so they say!); and in that allegedly dire situation, America (stupidly) took them in with open arms. You would think that a people saved from grave danger would have some gratitude — but the Jews are not like that. Suffice it to say; before you could say gefilte fish sandwich they swelled the ranks of, and basically ran, the Communist Party which was dedicated to overthrowing America; the Jews always bite the hand that feeds them — and, as they do it, they moan and whine that they are “oppressed.” In today’s world, they cover most of that history up. They don’t make “grand sagas” about Jew treachery; they instead produce endless bilge about “the immigrant experience,” this time even daring to put it in the context of a story about building — when everyone knows the main thing the Jews do is destroy, being the demons of decomposition.
As the film proceeds, it centers a key question that applies to every facet of its construction: What is strength? László’s vision for the Van Burens’ building — a blocky, pyramidal structure few others seem to understand — is uncompromising to a fault, even if it means pushing other people away in the process. But as the film proceeds, it centers a key question that applies to every facet of its construction: “What is strength? What is its nature? Is it the materials and the deep concrete foundation László builds? If so, must this come at the cost of the shakier foundation of his roots in a new country? He is always seen as an outsider, whether because of his Jewish-ness, his foreign-ness, or both. Does strength involve living with the physical and psychological pain he’s endured, and the strain it puts on his marriage? Or does it involve numbing that pain at any cost?
In the movie it is claimed that, prior to the war, the Jewish architect was considered un-Germanic by the National Socialists. The filmmakers want to be sure that even the laggards in the cheap seats get the message that Hitler was bad and, well, America was pretty rotten too. (Nothing is good enough for Jews!)
They tell us the Jewish architect worked for the infamous Bauhaus, which suggests that perhaps the trajectory of Jewish life in the 20th century can be summed up, with apologies to the great Tom Wolfe, as an arc from the Bauhaus to the outhouse.
They also tell us that this movie is an “echt” American tale of the (much-too-fabled) “Jewish experience of immigration.” (We welcomed them, and they immediately began to attack us; that’s what is “echt” about it.)
Meanwhile the Jewish press will fawn over this film and swoon over hook-nosed Brody’s performance. For a time, the controlled media will bubble over with written-to-order reviews celebrating this new “great achievement.”
But beneath all the ballyhoo and hoopla, it’s just another front in their war on us. And, really, they are massively overconfident. I say that because, more and more, our people are starting to see that there is a war on us, and the identity of those who are waging it is as obvious as the nose on Alien Brody’s face.
