Saltburn (2023)
It's somewhat amusing to me that the academic location of choice for Emerald Fennell's Saltburn is Oxford University. Out of the Ivy Leagues, Oxford feels slightly more elusive in reputation, although perhaps that's because I'm American. Regardless, Fennell spins a parody of old wealth, its off-kilter possessors, and their entitled offspring. She criticizes the British class system, although I'm not convinced that it's an area worth exploring in the way that the film approaches it. Naturally, the rich stay rich, and people like Oliver Quick (Barry Keoghan), a scholarship student, are never privy to experiencing that lifestyle. When he meets Felix Catton (Jacob Elordi), an affluent and popular student at the same college, the attraction is inevitable. Oliver isn't exactly socially perceptive, but he manages, and even for those not as capable as Oliver at interacting, there is an inherent magnetism to monetary charisma. That's really the bottomline in Saltburn, in which we're constantly in the throes of snobs going at each other's jugular about relatively insignificant domestic drama. I suppose that's what's being made fun of, ridiculing the problems of the ultra-wealthy—not that it's done well, but that's Fennell's overt plot point.
The sweaty performances from the main cast can't compensate for the brash storytelling. Fennell's script certainly isn't as funny as it thinks it is, and despite the dialogue trying very hard to sound engaging, Oliver's fascination with the Cattons is comically repellent to the viewer. The film seems to be under the impression that sexual transgression correlates to narrative substance, which is, needless to say, not true. There are, of course, times when the edginess may be either rightfully off-putting or sickening to the untrained viewer, but in the end, it means nothing. Nothing of note is said, insinuated, or suggested, and I waited the full two hours to latch onto a message I could pull out from the tangled chaos, but Saltburn refused. At the core of its on-the-nose nastiness, the film is a snoozefest shot in a 4:3 aspect ratio. It's not boring enough to put one to sleep; however, I reckon no one will retain the scenes not involved in eroticism a few weeks down the line. The bareboned socioeconomic meta-commentary mishmashes the perception of luxury activities as psychosexualism, pompous conversation, and random emphasis on professional attire.
Beyond the saliciousness, Saltburn feigns an air of sophistication that simply does not exist. The characters aren't worth your time or intelligence. Fennell drew inspiration from numerous places, but one such example I find best as a comparison is Pier Paolo Pasolini's 1968 film Theorem, where a mystifying man lives amongst a wealthy Italian family and various awakenings occur. It sounds a lot like this film, although the central focus of Pasolini is confined to the borgeous image in the eyes of the less fortunate. Meanwhile, Saltburn starts there, essentially using that idolization to squirm its way into a chronological telling of the quirky events that transpire in the Catton estate (Saltburn). All of which assume the viewer is incompetent, spoonfeeding us trivial information while prancing around the dogfight between admirers of Felix and those looking to gain something from him. It's not remotely restless, typically a surefire method of generating thrilling excitement, nor is it creatively structured, practically showing us exactly what is meant without a bit of leeway to think about it. I fail to see the point of filmmaking of this nature, looking for a line between cheap exploitation and lampooning the whims of airheaded opulence.
Fennell's incorporation of homoeroticism is easily the only theme worth paying attention to, particularly the initial and subsequently scattered narration from Oliver describing his apparent love as not romantic but deep affection. Obviously, that's up to the viewer's discretion, although that's genuinely the only point of potential analysis or even reason that we can apply to the perversity on display. I'd bet most viewers not blinded by Jacob Elordi's face are capable of recognizing the sheer idiocy of the conclusion, stringing along a ham-fisted reflection of reveals that reduce the entire film to an overlong metaphor for jealousy from bits of interesting sleaze. It's unfortunate that the screenplay doesn't respect the audience because the acting is pretty solid all around, excluding Rosamund Pike. The score is generally fitting; even the weird rock music makes sense within the context of the wealthy acting hip. Production and primary filming at the Drayton House had great sets and staging, not to mention the hedge maze, probably doubling as manipulative symbolism of some sort but also just attachments to excessiveness. One could argue that, by design, the film coincides with the same logic of feeling unrestrained, yet it doesn't leave that mark behind the veil of taboo exposure. Indulging in depravity, Saltburn loses us with lazy writing and pseudo-intellectual pretenses.