How Montreal falls in and out of love with Brutalist architecture

“Montreal is like the most Brutalist non-Soviet place on earth. Our entire metro system is brutalist af.” — Reddit, u/Gap1293

Montreal isn’t shy about its architectural identity.

These days, we’ve got our share of glass and steel structures like anybody else, but that’s only in addition to a skyline that leans into rawness and embraces the unapologetic honesty of Brutalism.

From the iconic Habitat 67 to the sprawling Guy-Favreau Complex, the city’s Brutalist landmarks are cultural artifacts, each etched with the ideals and contradictions of their era.

But how’d we get here?

The birth of Brutalism in Montreal

Emerging in the post-war years, Brutalism found its way to Montreal during a period of urban transformation.

The style’s signature use of raw concrete—béton brut—was more than an aesthetic choice; it was a material solution to the rapid urbanization and economic pressures of the mid-20th century. Brutalism’s geometric forms and exposed structures aligned perfectly with Montreal’s ambitious plans for Expo 67, the event that propelled the city onto the world stage.

This was the moment when Moshe Safdie unveiled his groundbreaking Habitat 67. Safdie’s stackable housing units, with their futuristic “gardens in the sky,” embodied Brutalism’s ethos of functional artistry. Designed to provide the benefits of suburban living in an urban environment, Habitat 67 remains a symbol of the movement’s idealism.

Yet Safdie himself resists the Brutalist label, calling his creation “anti-Brutalist”—a testament to how this polarizing style blurs lines between critique and celebration—but we digress. Moving on.

Concrete poetry in action

Montreal’s Brutalist landmarks reflect a blend of pragmatism and utopian ambition. The Guy-Favreau Complex, for instance, embodies the era’s fascination with urban megastructures. Its monolithic concrete façade houses federal offices and retail spaces, but its imposing presence often stirs mixed reactions. Critics have decried its fortress-like aesthetic, while admirers see it as a bold expression of structural integrity and efficiency.

Equally divisive is the Judith Jasmin Pavilion at UQAM, where angular forms and textured concrete walls challenge conventional ideas of beauty. The building’s stark exterior communicates a sense of power and permanence, resonating with the cultural and political themes of the 1960s. It’s the kind of architecture that demands you feel something—whether that’s awe or discomfort.

The Montreal Metro's underground Brutalism

Brutalism isn’t confined to the surface, and anyone that’s experienced the city’s subway system knows that.

The city’s Metro system, launched in 1966, is a subterranean gallery of concrete creativity. Stations like Préfontaine fuse Brutalist principles with surprising touches of colour and light, while others like Place Saint-Henri feature massive sculptures that hang from the ceiling in almost frightening ways.

Here, raw concrete serves as both canvas and material, transforming utilitarian transit spaces into environments of unexpected beauty. Apart from residential buildings in the city that carry the same design, the Metro is where Brutalism has a pulse in Montreal—a testament to the vision of architects who understood the potential of concrete to evoke emotion.

Controversy and critique

Despite its architectural merits, Brutalism hasn’t always been welcomed with open arms. Its association with government buildings, social housing, and large-scale urban projects has led to perceptions of coldness and authoritarianism.

In Montreal specifically, the Maison Radio-Canada exemplified this tension. Constructed after demolishing 20 city blocks, the building’s concrete mass became a symbol of both progress and displacement. The controversy surrounding its legacy mirrors the broader debates about Brutalism’s role in shaping urban environments.

That said, it’s telling that demolition began work in late 2024 around its site for the transformation of what will become the Quartier des Lumières. While the brown tower is going to be preserved, the contents and everything around reflect a new era.

A revival in the making

Today, Montreal’s relationship with Brutalism is shifting. What was once dismissed as oppressive is now celebrated as iconic. Guided tours of Habitat 67 draw thousands of visitors annually, coffee table books now catalogue the city’s Brutalist landmarks—this renewed appreciation reflects a broader architectural trend of reevaluating past styles that prioritized material honesty over aesthetic comfort.

As interest grows, so does the risk of loss: Many Brutalist buildings face neglect or demolition, victims of their own misunderstood aesthetics. Preserving these structures isn’t just about saving concrete; it’s about safeguarding the ideals they represent and the visions of community, durability, and functionality they contain or hold the capability for. 

Montreal’s love affair with Brutalism is about more than architecture. It’s about embracing a style that refuses to conform—a style that captures the city’s resilience, creativity, and contradictions.

In a world increasingly dominated by glassy anonymity, the city’s concrete giants remind us of the beauty found in raw, unapologetic design.