Closing out an epilogue that, in turn, caps the 3.5-hour experience that is “The Brutalist,” a certain character looks straight to the camera to deliver a kind of valediction. “It is the destination, not the journey,” they say, though the sentiment doesn’t wholly ring true. Far from it, for the journey is every bit as enthralling in this American epic of assimilation, immigration and industry, while the peculiar rhythms and idiosyncrasies of director Brady Corbet’s storytelling make the film a real standout of this year’s Venice Film Festival.
Split between two chapters, bookended by overture and epilogue and divided by an intermission, “The Brutalist” could be described as novelistic in both form and function.