By Josiah Rodriguez
*This Article Include Spoilers and Mentions of Sexual Assault*
“In New York, you can be a new man.” This phrase is more than an echo of the opening proclamations in Lin-Manuel Miranda’s Hamilton (Thomas Kail, 2015), but a statement that resonates with millions of individuals who arrived in this nation hoping for prosperity. Here, this statement is an embodiment of the sheer power that the American Dream can control, the idea that through the hopes of unwavering work and diligence, success is possible to all who seek it. In this introductory musical number, the ensemble echoes these words as this titular founding father searches for opportunity and purpose, looking for more than just success in life, but a transcendent rebirth from the past. Here, we watch the transition of Alexander Hamilton as he leaves his struggling youth to capture the potential that his life can fully offer, for “on the bow of a ship heading for a new land, in New York, you can be a new man.” It is these same words and ideas that also motivated László Tóth as he excitedly witnessed the behemoth of Ellis Island in 1940s Manhattan, the Statue of Liberty looming above him within the opening sequence of The Brutalist (Brady Corbet, 2024), an Oscar-winning epic that served as a dense exploration of what the American Dream conjures. With this character, we experience another personal expedition to rise out of homebound strife that this country can provide, and when we examine both László and Hamilton, we see two contrasting yet comparable arcs that show what this “dream” can push people toward. Between Hamilton and The Brutalist, the protagonists’ desires for purpose each contort into a dangerous spiral towards building a legacy that outweighs their actual lives, with each providing their own insights on what it is to chase the American Dream at the expense of their own humanity.
The pulsating allure of legacy is showcased as the ultimate ostracism of overcoming the past for Hamilton and László, and through their journeys to America, we witness them both take on this new world as a way to cleanse the mortality that broke them. Surrounded by poverty and death, Hamilton’s childhood essentially crafts the starving man we see throughout the musical. Like a rat trapped in a maze, Hamilton writhes across every corner of life in an eager rush to power, reflected in the fast lyrics and charged choreography that he constantly imbues throughout his encounters. It is here that he reaches for divinity, taking every opportunity he can to rise to the top in every accomplishment he sets for. When juxtaposed with László Tóth, a Hungarian-Jewish architect who survived the concentration camps of the Holocaust, he enters America through a lens of national pride, never burying his trauma but instead exploring it. As he approaches his craft, he longs to leave a legacy that rewrites the history he and his people had endured, aiming to become a living success against the Holocaust’s aspirations through how the fortifications of his art will thrive. It is out of the ashes of their history that Hamilton and László push forward, both operating as masters of their fate.
In their work, Hamilton slowly rises through the ranks of the American Revolution and the newly forming government; László takes varying jobs and connections until he eventually lands a monumental architectural project. They chug ahead, blinded by the muzzle of their grindstones as every gateway drives them towards satisfying completion. Even as László works as a common laborer, he is addicted to any and all shapes of work that come his way and improve his prospects, letting every step push him into the reality of his future. Despite a passing camaraderie of differing faces and connections, both men live as nearly isolated creatures on their journeys, for whether in the dynamics with either their friends or their wives, we watch as their reckonings grow against the stature of commonality. It is here where they prioritize their end goals rather than themselves, a toll that’s drastically shaped by more than simply the “American Dream,” but by how they use this vision as a mask for their own flaws.
Interwoven in László’s purposeful motions is his crippling addiction to heroin. At first, it’s an easy way to numb his sorrow as he works to recover himself, yet as the film progresses, it becomes one of his most essential coping mechanisms as he reckons with his emotional state, whether in the situations thrown at him or at the weight he brings onto himself. Heroin becomes his physical compensation to reckon throughout his work, corroding through the haziness of his highs as the responsibilities he shapes for himself slowly begin to expand. Through this submergence in substances, he ensures that only he can break himself rather than any oncoming failures finishing the task, looking to still chase the dream but at admitting the cost can waste his life. Hamilton is nearly the same in how he keeps an emotional distance from all he cares about, constantly letting himself be interwoven in work in order to never lose power. To admit actual acknowledgment would simply point to his calamitous lifestyle, allowing for rhythmic work, marital infidelities, and constant arguments to offer justification to continue onto his plans. If on a misstep, all that would be needed is a quick blame and move-on, creating self-inflictions as procrastinations, and procrastinations as self-inflictions. It’s a balancing act they both make for themselves, committing to their work alongside facing the existential purposes that lie before them. Yet even with their personal demons, Hamilton and László are still creatures of circumstance.
Work without compromise is often a rarity even among the most common among us, and to the most disadvantaged, it can be nothing more than a status quo. Whether in prejudice or setbacks, we watch as Hamilton and László face scorn from the already established of their fields as they attempt success, a common trend still unfortunately found among many immigrants today. Biases of class and race shape much of the discrimination that is thrown at both men, whether in passive-aggressive conversation, unannounced suspensions that affect their responsibilities, or even verbal and physical abuse, constantly sharpening them into a dwindling dehumanization. Even when looking at just the first seconds to the opening number sung by Hamilton’s rival, Aaron Burr, we see how, in legacy, he is questioned from his “spot in the Caribbean…impoverished, in squalor” as if in disbelief that anyone could even advance to power from such an origin, a theme carried across the musical’s entirety as Hamilton’s heritage sources mockery. Not only does the ruin of his past push his actions, but it also heightens the sabotage around him. As he is pushed farther, he reaches the end of the show as a nearly depleted and empty man, optimistic about death and ready to pass from the agony his life had brought. Meanwhile, with László, we find a brutal experience for this titular brutalist. Like Hamilton, we see his career blocked and altered in a variety of manners, yet what pushes him to the brink, however, is when he finds himself raped by his employer, a wealthy elite named Harrison Van Buren. As this assault of physical dominance crushes much of the spark that László has within him, it is here where his constant trauma finally boils over. In the remainder of his work, the American dream is sidelined alongside László’s artistic purpose and transcendence, with all that remains bringing a collateral burden that psychologically torments him in the execution. Injustice and bigotry spawn internal agony within the careers that these men undertake, and while their contributions are remembered, it comes at the cost of an eradicating burnout.
And yet in this work, they claim the American Dream in the palm of their hand as they find their success. The Brutalist’s final scene is an epilogue set in 1980 Venice, where at an event celebrating the transcendent legacy that László chased towards, the film ends with a provocative line to mull over: “no matter what the others may try and sell you, it is the destination, not the journey.” As he smiles at his accomplishments and the credits begin to roll in a slanted fashion, a needle drop of irony begins to blast, with La Bionda’s “One for You, One for Me,” enthusiastically playing as the credits awkwardly ascend offscreen, the film wrapping up on its own terms the same way László approached his newfound life. Meanwhile, Hamilton’s ending number of “Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story,” presents his aftermath as a somber celebration of honor, ending the show as a send-up of his legacy and how, through the steps he took and the diligence he imbued, the world was a better place for it. Both Hamilton and László end their stories as the glorified successes they strove towards, where, by battering the filth of others and themselves, they achieve their goal at the cost of their own lives. When looking as a viewer, it’s genuinely depressing on both ends. As they look to escape their trauma only to enhance it tenfold, these projects showcase both stories, while superficially successful, as cautionary tragedies. To throw their lives away for the sake of worldly recognition is a note that ends them both in a suffocation of inflated egos, as even in their finales of supposed happiness, you can’t help but feel the bitter edges that their legacies bring. Whether in the final words and needle drop of The Brutalist or the recollections of circumstance that Hamilton brought in the wake of his death, these stories end as empty fates based entirely on the compensation of others’ perceptions, their legacies being nothing more than monumental tombstones. Both prove the American Dream is possible for all who seek it, yet with Hamilton and The Brutalist, we watch portrayals on how consuming this path can be if approached poorly.
