~50 bays, 8 storeys, a massive slab of flats, 400 windows on one huge plane. And yet, this 1930s building looks pretty good. Why?
Part of the answer is the use of the classical language to visually structure and humanise the enormous bulk.
Vertically, the lower ground floor is distinguished as a visual 'plinth' with stone facing, and the upper ground is then marked off with a string course (a band of stonework). The middle three storeys are grouped as an 'implied order' between the string course and the cornice. Above the cornice is an 'attic' storey, and then there are two storeys in the roof.
No storey is an exact duplicate of another; each plays a different role in the ensemble. If you cut out any one of them, the proportions of the others would look slightly wrong.
Horizontally the facade is broken down into a five-part composition (only four parts are visible in the photo), with three 'pavilions' distinguished from the linking wings by richer ornamental treatment.
Again, this means that each bay plays an indispensable part in the whole. If you sliced off the final bay, the whole 50-bay building would look wrong. You might be able to cut a bay or two from one of the wings without people noticing, but pretty quickly the lopsidedness would become obvious.
At the time of its construction, this building would have been seen as extremely mechanical and monotonous relative to the kind of architecture then admired. But there is a sense in which the classical language is seen at its best in cases like this, where it makes a basically repetitive and monotonous building type markedly less relentless than it would otherwise be.