Keisha Dowlman

Image: Christ Church College, Oxford – Claire Gao with permission for Girl Talk

Saltburn spoilers ahead. Set in Oxford University and the fictional Saltburn Manor in the mid-2000s, the film Saltburn was released in 2023 and directed by Emerald Fennell.

Emerald Fennell’s Saltburn took Gen-Z by complete storm. Capturing the mid-noughties zeitgeist, it resurrected Sophie Ellis-Bextor’s Murder on the Dancefloor, bringing it into the Top Ten Charts over twenty years after its original release, and prompted various social media trends based on the dance scene to that song at the end of the film. 

It was hugely influential and was met with incredible popularity and positivity. Yet, as the music fades and the sun sets on Saltburn manor, months after its release and initial awe, we are left with the feeling that the remnant of any potential that this film had at the start is quickly running down the drain, much like Jacob Elordi’s bathwater.

Saltburn’s initial critical reception positioned it as an incredibly unique film, something that vouched for the importance of originality in the sea of modern mass-produced Marvel and media saturation. That isn’t to say that movies inspired by other things aren’t good; one of my personal favourite films is 10 Things I Hate About You, a remake of Shakespeare’s Taming of the Shrew. Recreation and inspiration is not a bad thing. Originality as we think of it now is a relatively recent concept. Literature was inspired by the myths and plays of the Ancients, which in turn inspired more literature, providing a rich creative literary canon for artists to come to build upon. The Romantics (Blake, Byron, Wordsworth and Shelley) began popularising the concept of originality. Before them, the authority of your creation came from its lineage. After them, the authority of your creation came from its single point of creation.

So, in no way does ‘originality’ automatically set a piece of art above others, or carry some inherent goodness. Unfortunately for Saltburn, it was neither as original as early critics made it out to be, nor particularly good as an inspired work. Rather, there is something that Saltburn misses in its referential attitude, some momentum that it loses when trying to emulate great works before it. 

Fennell has been very vocal about the inspirations that influenced her throughout the writing and production of Saltburn. Brideshead Revisited, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Jude the Obscure, The Go Between, Atonement, Line of Beauty and Rebecca are among them. Fennell is tapping into a rich British genre of the countryside Gothic, one that has been done well many times over. What makes the style so deliciously disconcerting is the suspense, and the gradual build to overwhelm. Saltburn, naturally then, markets itself as a Gothic-Romance decorated with homoerotic overtones. There is the obsessive Oliver who looks at golden boy Felix with a dangerous mix of love, idolisation and jealousy, worming his way into his life, leaching, bleeding him dry.

Yet, it is hardly an original plot. It can be matched, beat for beat, with The Talented Mr. Ripley. From the psychotic grifter who lies and charms his way into the life of a wealthy man, to the dubious friend that sees right through him and threatens to undo all his plans, to the impressionable and tragic woman who suffers at the hands of everyone around her. When I watch Saltburn, it appears to be a hollowed out shell of an incredible film, one that has been stuffed full of shock-factor scenes and beautiful actors to compensate for its lack of interest and respect for its lineage. So, to put it crassly, why does Saltburn suck?

The two major themes of the film are class and identity, and how the two overlap. Where in Mr Ripley, Tom literally takes over Dickie’s identity, Oliver in Saltburn seeks to consume Felix’s. Both are classic examples of not knowing if you want to be someone or be with someone. Most of the times that Tom kills someone, it isn’t out of malice or cruelty or insanity, but because he is backed into a corner he can’t charm his way out of. He is a victim of his own lies, tortured by his own actions. Oliver, however, seems to revel in the chaos he brings, enjoying ripping an entire family apart and yet, he is never presented with a fair motive. The big revelation at the end, that Oliver was in control of all the ‘chances’ that brought them together, curating a sequence of lies in order to drive Felix to him, detracts rather than adds to the disconcerting nature of the film. Instead of being a complex character in his interesting mix of tortured, infatuated and ambitious feelings, Oliver is suddenly simple in his hatred. Far from being a quick-witted character to root for, a strategic young man ready to take advantage of whatever happens, Oliver suddenly plays God. Fear is not as powerful as discomfort. Where we are in an uncomfortable sympathetic relation to Mr Ripley’s Tom because of the ways he struggles with his actions, we are sure in our fear of Oliver. In a last-minute plot twist, Saltburn simplifies itself and its characters in a way that Mr Ripley does not. Saltburn manages to do what has already been done, worse.

As soon as Saltburn was released, a selection of infamous scenes began haunting TikTok and the wider Internet. They provoked horror, disgust and discomfort, challenging cinematic norms and sparking debate around what could and could not be shown in blockbuster films. Whilst the graveyard scene is very clearly Wuthering Heights inspired, the others seemed to spawn from nowhere within the literary canon.

The bathtub scene seems to have caused the most division – some claimed it wasn’t that bad, some were utterly disgusted. In the spirit of honesty, I gagged when I watched it, especially when Oliver started to slurp from the drain. The scene builds up slowly in typical Gothic fashion, disturbing undertones set when Oliver walks down the hallway to the sound of Felix pleasuring himself, lit from the side in red. It set up for what had the potential to be a revealing scene about Oliver’s character and motive. Instead, the payoff is visceral disgust. From the second Oliver touches the bathtub water, the scene escalates exponentially, from rubbing his face in the water, to drinking it, to licking it up as it runs down the drain. And yet, looking back, it tells you nothing about Oliver – or at least, nothing that makes sense once the final plot twist is revealed. 

Perhaps the scene works to reinforce the struggle between wanting to be someone versus wanting someone. But it does not align with the character that Oliver proves to be. He is a watcher, a lurker, a shadow. Yet this scene undermines that. It is a risk that makes no sense to take, one that exposes his insanity to the audience too early and renders the rest of the film anti-climactic. It served to provoke conversation about how surprising the scene was in the form of TikTok voiceovers and y2k edits rather than build upon Oliver as a multifaceted character.

Saltburn sells out to shock factor. It is what makes the film memorable in the age of media saturation and exponentially-diminishing attention spans, how it engraves itself into the mind of its watcher. And yet, it is through this shock factor that the film ends up sucking. It deliberately sheds its emotional complexity and the mystery that decorates the film at first for a too-satisfying resolve. This is not to say I hated it – it’s a fun watch. But, Saltburn, you could have been so much better.