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With ten Oscar nominations, The Brutalist has reignited the debate over the legacy of brutalism. The polarising architectural style was shaped by post-war hopes for a better future. But it was also, as historian Adrian Forty argues in his book Concrete and Culture (2012), an “expression of melancholy, the work of a civilisation that had all but destroyed itself in the second world war”.
The fictional architect at centre of The Brutalist, László Tóth, is an Austro-Hungarian modernist and concentration-camp survivor who moves to America to rebuild his life. His designs, described as “machines”, are inspired by the trauma of camps like Buchenwald and Dachau.
Emerging from the rubble of the second world war, brutalism became an architectural response to devastation and the pressing need for urban renewal. The destruction caused by the Blitz provided architects with opportunities to design environments reflecting the ideals of the new welfare state: equality, accessibility and functionality for the collective good.
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This ethical foundation aimed to address the social needs of the post-war era, particularly in housing, education and public welfare infrastructure. Notable examples of the style include the Barbican estate and Southbank Centre in London.
Architectural critic Reyner Banham, who coined the term brutalism in his 1966 work Brutalism: Ethic or Aesthetic, argued that the movement was more than an aesthetic choice. He championed the work of Alison and Peter Smithson, young British architects who played a crucial role in shaping brutalism through projects like Robin Hood Gardens in London’s Tower Hamlets. For Banham, brutalism was an ethical stance and a form of “radical philosophy” aiming to address the social needs of the post-war era.
The brutalist style has, however, often been criticsed for what many perceived to be its unappealing, “ugly” aesthetic and alienating qualities. In 1988, King Charles famously compared the National Theatre in London to a nuclear plant, encapsulating the public’s mixed reactions. Similarly the situationists (a French anti-capitalist art movement) denounced brutalist housing estates as “machines for living”. They saw them as oppressive structures that stifled human connection.
The perception of brutalism is highly dependent on context. In warmer climates like Marseille in France, the play of sunlight on raw concrete gave structures a sculptural quality. In the UK’s wet climate, however, exposed concrete weathered quickly, making buildings appear grey and neglected.
Yet for brutalist architects, this was never just about aesthetics. They saw their designs as expressions of honesty and social progress, rejecting ornamentation in favour of raw, functional materials that symbolised a new egalitarian society. The very qualities that critics saw as oppressive were, to its proponents, what made brutalism a radical and hopeful architecture.
Rebellion and reclamation
Despite their ethical intentions, brutalist buildings often appeared to have an alienating impact on their residents. In his book Making Dystopia (2018), architectural historian James Stevens Curl discusses the Canada Estate in Bermondsey, London, built in 1964, where tenants expressed their disaffection for the environment through acts of vandalism.
By the 1970s, the optimism surrounding modernist and brutalist projects had begun to collapse, both figuratively and literally. One of the most infamous moments symbolising this failure was the Ronan Point disaster in 1968.
A gas explosion on the 18th floor of this newly built tower block in east London caused a partial collapse. Four people were killed and serious concerns were raised about the safety and quality of post-war high-rise housing.
This tragedy pushed the Clash’s Joe Strummer to write one of the band’s most notable songs, London’s Burning, in 1976. In the late 1970s and 1980s, punks splattered brutalist architecture with graffiti slogans echoing situationist critiques of modern urban life.
Some referenced punk band names or song lyrics, showing how punk didn’t just adopt the attitude of the situationists but also their language and tactics. Jamie Reid, the architect of the Sex Pistols’ aesthetic, often used images of brutalist structures as a stark backdrop to his punk visuals.
The punk movement reinterpreted the failure of brutalism not just as an architectural problem but as a broader societal collapse, highlighting issues of alienation, neglect and the erosion of post-war utopian ideals.
Read more: Jamie Reid: the defiant punk art of the man behind the Sex Pistols’ iconic imagery
Yet, in recent years, the brutalist aesthetic has found a new audience. Online communities, such as Reddit’s 1.5 million-member r/EvilBuildings reflect on buildings and surroundings captured by community members and the impressions these structures leave. Brutalist buildings frequently top the list.
This renewed interest highlights the complex legacy of a style that was once widely criticised but continues to captivate a broader audience beyond architects.
Brutalism’s dual legacy, a movement intended to create community but often seen as alienating, continues to shape debates in architecture and urban planning. The controversial nature of this style is evident in the demolition of prominent structures like the Smithsons’ Robin Hood Gardens (2018), the Tricorn Centre in Portsmouth (2004), and the currently ongoing demolition of Cumbernauld town centre in central Scotland.
These demolitions highlight both brutalism’s polarised reception and the public reassessment of its value. These spaces are more than just concrete. They are sites of memory, rebellion, and ongoing cultural significance, continuously shaping and being shaped by the society around them.
Gleb Redko does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.
