In this video I try to articulate why The Brutalist hit me as one of the most tragic films of the decade—especially because of its strange epilogue. The ending doesn’t “resolve” the story so much as it excavates the ground beneath it, shaking the foundation and forcing me to reconsider everything that came before. I look at what Brady Corbet seems to be doing here: not delivering themes up front in “good taste,” but deliberately disrupting comfort so we actually wake up and engage with what we’re feeling. From there, I focus on what the ending challenges: perspective, ownership, and the uneasy gap between inner life and public persona. The switch toward Zsófia’s voice makes me think about how stories get appropriated—how expression becomes perception, how a life becomes someone else’s narration. That tension opens into something more metaphysical for me: the fundamental rift in our being, the tragedy of interiority Ernest Becker describes, and the struggle to build a “home” that isn’t just physical but existential. Ultimately, my second viewing reframed László less as a man chasing an American dream and more as a broken soul haunted by unreconcilable pain—especially the suffering of those he loves. The film lets me sit with irreconcilability: dreams and reality, love and loss, meaning and trauma. And yet, beneath all that unresolved motion, I still sense a quiet suggestion of something immovable—a hard core of beauty.