The movie that changed bathtime forever.
There’s a glimmer of diabolical brilliance in Saltburn, Emerald Fennell’s audacious follow-up to Promising Young Woman, that whispers sweet, barbed nothings of privilege, desire, and the murkier shades of the human condition. A taut yet sprawling exploration of obsession and class disparity, the film embraces its Gothic inclinations with gleeful abandon, constructing a decadent, if unsettling, tapestry of self-destruction and ambition.
At its heart, Saltburn introduces us to Oliver Quick (Barry Keoghan), a socially awkward scholarship student who finds himself drawn into the intoxicating orbit of Felix Catton (Jacob Elordi), the golden scion of a staggeringly wealthy family. As Felix invites Oliver to spend the summer at his family’s opulent estate – the titular Saltburn – the stage is set for a Shakespearean unravelling of secrets, desires, and betrayals. Keoghan’s performance is a marvel of subtlety and intensity, oscillating between sympathy and unease as Oliver navigates the perilous waters of his new social milieu.
The Catton family are a constellation of archetypes rendered with sharp wit and venomous charm. Rosamund Pike’s matriarch, Elspeth, brims with the kind of brittle disdain that masks profound insecurity, while Richard E. Grant’s patriarch, Sir James, exudes a disarmingly jovial decadence. Archie Madekwe and Alison Oliver round out the ensemble as Felix’s siblings, both emblematic of inherited privilege and its attendant emotional rot. Together, they embody a kind of grand, unselfconscious theatricality that skirts the line between satire and sincerity.
Fennell’s direction is as assured as it is mischievous, crafting a visual language that luxuriates in excess while hinting at the rot beneath the surface. The cinematography, dripping with chiaroscuro and sensuous colour palettes, echoes the aesthetic of a fever dream, where the opulence of Saltburn’s halls takes on an almost suffocating quality. Yet, it is in the contrasts that the film finds its sharpest edges – the grubby desperation of Oliver’s humble beginnings juxtaposed with the careless splendour of Felix’s world.
Narratively, Saltburn dances to the rhythm of a slow-burn thriller, punctuated by moments of shocking audacity that veer close to Grand Guignol territory. Fennell’s script crackles with dark humour and sharp social commentary, although its tonal shifts occasionally verge on discordant. The film’s willingness to lean into its more outrageous elements may alienate some viewers, but it’s precisely this audacity that cements its identity.
At its core, Saltburn is an interrogation of power and desire, refracted through the lens of a toxic friendship that morphs into something far darker. The film’s Gothic overtones – its sprawling estate, its labyrinthine secrets, its morally compromised characters – evoke the likes of Rebecca or The Talented Mr. Ripley. Yet, Fennell’s vision remains distinctly her own, laced with an impish irreverence that undermines easy categorisation.
If there is a flaw in Saltburn, it’s perhaps that its thematic ambitions occasionally outstrip its narrative coherence. The film’s final act, while thrillingly audacious, flirts with the edge of absurdity, threatening to undo some of the tension that preceded it. And yet, it’s hard to begrudge a film so committed to its own vision, so gleefully unafraid to shock, provoke, and seduce its audience.
Saltburn is a heady concoction – part poison, part elixir – that lingers long after the credits roll. It’s a film that invites you to revel in its decadence even as it lays bare the corruption at its core. Bold, twisted, and wickedly entertaining, it solidifies Fennell’s status as one of the most distinctive voices in contemporary cinema.
