Saltburn isn’t just a movie. It’s a slow-burn descent into wealth, desire, and the quiet violence of social exclusion. Emerald Fennell, fresh off her Oscar win for Promising Young Woman, didn’t make a sequel. She didn’t make a safe follow-up. She made a gothic soap opera dressed in cashmere, set in a sprawling English manor, and fueled by something far more dangerous than revenge: longing.
The story starts simply. Oliver Quick, a shy, working-class scholarship student at Oxford, gets invited to spend the summer at Saltburn, the estate of the wealthy and eccentric Catton family. He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t expect much. But by the end of the season, he’s changed. So has the house. So has everyone in it.
Class Isn’t Just a Background - It’s the Main Character
Saltburn doesn’t just show class differences. It weaponizes them. Oliver wears secondhand sweaters. The Cattons wear silk pajamas made in Italy. Oliver eats cafeteria food. The Cattons have a chef who prepares truffle risotto at 3 a.m. for no reason other than they feel like it.
The film doesn’t preach. It observes. And what it observes is how wealth doesn’t just buy comfort - it buys silence. The Cattons don’t mock Oliver. They ignore him. And that’s worse. It’s the kind of neglect that makes you wonder if you’re even real to them. When Felix Catton, the charming, reckless heir, finally notices Oliver, it’s not out of kindness. It’s because Oliver is the only person in the house who doesn’t know how to act like he belongs.
That’s the hook. The obsession isn’t romantic. It’s territorial. Felix doesn’t want Oliver. He wants to own the idea of Oliver - the outsider who doesn’t play by the rules. And Oliver? He doesn’t just want to be accepted. He wants to become the house. To live inside its walls, its secrets, its rot.
Obsession as a Form of Survival
Barry Keoghan, as Oliver, doesn’t act. He absorbs. His eyes never blink. His voice never rises. He doesn’t need to scream to make you feel his hunger. When he finally speaks his truth - late in the film, in a single, quiet line - the whole room goes still. Not because it’s shocking. Because it’s true.
Most films about obsession show people losing control. Saltburn shows someone gaining it. Oliver doesn’t lose himself to Felix. He uses Felix’s chaos to rebuild himself. He doesn’t steal money. He steals identity. He doesn’t break into the house - he lets the house break him open, then stitches himself back together with its threads.
The film’s most disturbing moment isn’t violent. It’s a breakfast scene. Oliver sits at the head of the table, wearing Felix’s robe, eating from Felix’s plate, sipping from Felix’s cup. No one stops him. No one says a word. The family doesn’t notice. Or maybe they do. And they don’t care. Because to them, he’s already become part of the furniture.
The Luxury That Feels Like a Trap
Saltburn’s setting is breathtaking. The house is real - a 17th-century estate in Herefordshire, with marble floors, velvet drapes, and a library that looks like it was lifted from a Jane Austen novel. But every beautiful shot feels like a cage. The gardens are too perfect. The pools are too still. The portraits on the wall watch too closely.
The costumes, designed by Jenny Eagan, don’t just reflect status - they enforce it. Oliver’s clothes shrink as the film goes on. The Cattons’ clothes get looser. Felix wears silk shirts unbuttoned to his navel. His mother wears pearls at breakfast. Their wealth isn’t just shown - it’s worn. And it’s suffocating.
There’s a scene where Oliver walks through the house at night, barefoot, in a borrowed robe. The camera lingers on his feet. They’re dirty. His toes are cracked. The marble is cold. He doesn’t flinch. He’s not afraid of the cold. He’s afraid of what happens when he stops being the outsider. When he becomes one of them.
Emerald Fennell’s Signature: Beauty With Teeth
Fennell has a gift for making cruelty look elegant. In Promising Young Woman, she turned a party scene into a takedown of male entitlement. In Saltburn, she turns a family dinner into a silent auction of dignity.
Her direction is precise. Every frame is composed like a painting - until something moves in the corner. A hand reaching for a glass. A glance that lasts too long. A laugh that cuts too sharp. The score, by Anthony Willis, doesn’t swell. It whispers. Violins hum like a fridge. Piano notes click like a clock counting down.
And then there’s the ending. No spoiler here - you’ll know it when you see it. But it’s not meant to shock. It’s meant to settle. Like dust on a mantelpiece. Like a secret you’ve kept too long. You don’t gasp. You exhale. And then you realize you’ve been holding your breath since the first scene.
Who Is This Movie For?
If you’re looking for a love story, you’ll leave disappointed. If you’re looking for justice, you’ll leave angry. If you’re looking for a movie that makes you feel something you can’t name - a mix of envy, dread, and morbid fascination - then you’re in the right place.
Saltburn isn’t for everyone. It doesn’t want to be. It’s not trying to be liked. It’s trying to be remembered. And it will be. Not because of the nudity. Not because of the shocking twist. But because it shows what happens when someone who’s always been invisible decides they want to be seen - even if it means burning the whole house down to do it.
What It Says About Modern Wealth
There’s a line in the film: “You don’t get to choose who you fall for. But you do get to choose who you become.”
That’s the core of Saltburn. It’s not about sex. It’s about transformation. Oliver doesn’t fall for Felix. He falls for the life Felix represents. And he’s willing to become monstrous to live inside it.
In a world where influencers sell curated poverty and billionaires buy art to prove they’re cultured, Saltburn holds up a mirror. It asks: What are you willing to erase about yourself to belong? What parts of your soul will you trade for a seat at the table?
The answer isn’t pretty. But then again, neither is privilege.
Why It Stays With You
Most films about class end with the poor rising up. Saltburn ends with the poor becoming the rich - and realizing too late that the price was everything they were.
You’ll think about it for days. Not because it’s loud. But because it’s quiet. Because it doesn’t yell. It just watches. And waits. Like the house. Like the portraits. Like the people who’ve lived there too long to remember why they ever wanted to leave.
