There is a moment about a third of the way through the runtime of Saltburn that will make or break your affection for Emerald Fennell’s sophomore feature. Oliver Quick (Barry Keoghan) is peering through the crack in a bathroom doorway, watching Felix Catton (Jacob Elordi) masturbate in a clawfoot bathtub situated in the middle of an absurdly large bathroom. The voyeurism itself isn’t particularly provocative; it’s what happens after Felix finishes that not only tests your compatibility with Fennell’s film, but also serves as something of a mission statement. Saltburn isn’t content with merely eating the rich. It wants to salivate on them like a fly readying its meal; it devours them slowly, savoring every tender morsel. And then it presses its fingerprints into the family’s heirloom serving tray to retrieve the crumbs and licks its fingers, one by one.
This bathroom scene is but one of several similarly breathtaking moments of brazen depravity in Saltburn, Fennell’s highly anticipated follow-up to Promising Young Woman. Comparisons are inevitable, so let’s get them out of the way: Where Promising Young Woman is an assured modern revenge thriller in which the thesis statement is a resounding “yes, all men,” Saltburn is a confidently languorous psychological thriller in the vein of The Talented Mr. Ripley. It’s also more refined and considered than its predecessor, though the humor is just as biting and dark—if not more so, given the lofty setting and characters. Upon learning of a dear friend’s death, Rosamund Pike’s Elsbeth Catton scoffs, “She’d do anything for attention.” Somehow this makes Elsbeth more relatable, particularly to those whose sense of humor hangs in the gallows.
But we’re getting too far ahead. From the outset, Saltburn presents a familiar story: In 2006, Oliver Quick is an underprivileged man from a tumultuous upbringing who wins a scholarship to Oxford, where he befriends the wealthy Felix Catton, and soon finds himself in over his mousy little head in this alien world of aristocracy. As you may have surmised from the names and the basic premise, Saltburn takes a page from Charles Dickens, sure, but also his subversive successors—namely Patricia Highsmith and Donna Tartt (think The Secret History, not The Goldfinch). The world Fennell builds from there is opulent and insular, with notes of rot wafting from within; a world in which the wealthy feed on the tragic lives of the less fortunate until they become bored and abruptly detach, like leeches when they’ve had their fill.
Felix’s life is one of little effort. Women, friends, alcohol, drugs, money—it all comes to Felix (his name is taken from the Latin word for fortunate). Oliver, on the other hand, is only at Oxford because of his efforts, and navigating his place in the social hierarchy is a strenuous activity. When Oliver’s father dies, Felix invites his new friend to the eponymous Catton family estate for the summer, where he meets the rest of the Catton clan: Felix’s mother Elsbeth (Pike), his father Sir James (Richard E. Grant), and his sister Venetia (Alison Oliver). Joining them are schoolmate and fellow aristocrat Farleigh (Archie Madekwe), family friend Pamela (Carey Mulligan), and Duncan, the hilariously stone-faced butler (Paul Rhys).
It isn’t long before Oliver begins testing the boundaries of his place at the table, occasionally falling into a well-laid tourist trap—like hooking up with Venetia. But Oliver is wiser than we give him credit for, and so is Felix. Just as Oliver’s time at Saltburn is a litmus test, the film itself is gauging the viewer’s capacity for empathy and whether we’re capable of extending it to these oblivious wealthy people in their carefully constructed bubble. It’s an entertaining exercise punctuated by the aforementioned moments of depravity in which our ostensible protagonist similarly begins to challenge our empathy. This is the closest Fennell gets to thematically replicating Promising Young Woman, though the leap may be easier for some viewers to make given the broader context of Saltburn.
A different film keeps coming to mind as I consider Fennell’s latest: Call Me By Your Name. In a certain light, Saltburn is about an illicit romance between two seemingly incompatible men. Both films are set at luxurious remote estates where a wealthy family invites a less privileged interloper named Oliver to stay. In Call Me By Your Name, Timothée Chalamet’s Elio masturbates and ejaculates into a peach. When Oliver finds it, he observes the semen dripping inside. If you watched this scene and felt disappointed when Oliver didn’t eat the soiled peach, then Saltburn is most assuredly for you. To put it another way: Call Me By Your Name is shaped by repressed feelings and longing for something impossible, while Saltburn avidly indulges every devious impulse. There are no peaches, but fluids are eagerly consumed, giving a different meaning to “eat the rich.”
Saltburn‘s prerogative might not be for you, but its performances are undeniably great. Rosamund Pike and Richard E. Grant are excellent as Elsbeth and Sir James, Felix’s increasingly insular parents whose capacity for empathy is repeatedly tested along with that of the viewer. For Elsbeth and Sir James, however, their inability to relate or to be relatable only makes them more human. Each crack in the porcelain of their refined personas confers a new wrinkle of complexity, though they remain slightly more hilarious than heartbreaking with each mounting hardship.
Barry Keoghan and Jacob Elordi have compelling chemistry, but Elordi seems capable of creating chemistry with almost anyone. He was born and bred in a lab full of mallrat hunks to play Felix, the tall boy with an eyebrow ring and a golden bod; a physique that is aspirational yet non-threatening. If you’ve only ever seen Elordi in Euphoria, then you arguably haven’t seen him at all. Sam Levinson puts him to such obvious use in the HBO series as a sociopathic jock trying to fuck his way out of the shadow of a bad dad, one fleeting thought away from becoming a misogynist serial killer. Through Fennell’s lens, Elordi unfolds to reveal dimensions previously undiscovered. He becomes less scrutable and seems to exert more control over what he shows you, and when. His affability is charming and reads as genuine, even (and especially) when it couldn’t possibly be so uncomplicated.
Keoghan’s abilities are well-documented; The Killing of a Sacred Deer and Banshees of Inisherin have especially shown Keogan to be one of our least predictable and most effective young actors. Saltburn gives him another opportunity to play with expectations, which he does up until the very end.
As with most sophomore efforts, Saltburn isn’t without flaw. The film deflates somewhat as it transitions from the second act to the third, as motives of certain characters become more evident. While it loses some momentum heading into the climax, Saltburn is still endlessly captivating with its devious thrills and an aesthetic best likened to a bead of sweat trickling down a tan abdomen, rolling past a silver navel ring before taking its final rest in the waistband of a pair of low-rise jeans.
(featured image: Amazon MGM Studios)
