Saltburn doesn’t just ask you to watch it-it dares you to look away. Emerald Fennell’s follow-up to Promising Young Woman is a slow-burn gothic tale wrapped in silk sheets and dripping with privilege. It’s not a horror movie, but it’s more terrifying than any slasher. This isn’t about jump scares. It’s about what happens when wealth, loneliness, and desire collide in a crumbling English manor. And it’s all set to a soundtrack of classical music and whispered threats.
If you’ve ever felt like an outsider at a party where everyone else was born into the room, Saltburn will make your skin crawl. The film follows Oliver Quick, a shy, working-class Oxford student played by Jacob Elordi, who gets invited to spend the summer at the sprawling Saltburn estate of his wealthy classmate, Felix Catton (Barry Keoghan). What starts as a gesture of kindness turns into something darker. Felix isn’t just generous-he’s obsessed. And Oliver, desperate for belonging, lets himself be pulled into a world where morality is optional and excess is the only rule.
Class Isn’t Just a Background-It’s the Main Character
Fennell doesn’t just show class differences. She makes them the engine of the whole story. Oliver wears thrift-store sweaters. Felix’s family owns entire villages. Their dinners are served on silver platters with crystal glasses that cost more than Oliver’s rent. The way the Cattons move through their home-effortless, entitled, unbothered-feels like a performance. And Oliver? He’s the audience. He watches. He learns. He mimics.
There’s a scene where Oliver, alone in the library, picks up a first edition book and runs his fingers along the spine. He doesn’t open it. He just touches it. That moment says more than any monologue ever could. It’s not about the book. It’s about what the book represents: access. Knowledge. Belonging. The Cattons treat their possessions like air-something they breathe without thinking. Oliver treats them like oxygen he’s been denied his whole life.
Fennell doesn’t paint the rich as evil. She paints them as bored. And boredom, in Saltburn, is the most dangerous thing of all. When you’ve had everything handed to you, the only thrill left is breaking things. And Oliver? He’s the thing they break.
Obsession Isn’t Romantic-It’s a Slow Poison
The film’s central relationship isn’t love. It’s possession. Felix doesn’t want Oliver because he’s kind or smart or funny. He wants him because Oliver is the one person who doesn’t already belong. He’s an outsider. A blank slate. A mirror that doesn’t reflect the Cattons’ own hollow reflections.
There’s a moment in the film where Felix, drunk and half-laughing, tells Oliver: “You’re the only one who doesn’t know how to be here.” That line cuts deeper than any knife. Felix doesn’t see Oliver as a friend. He sees him as a project. A way to prove he can still control something-even if it’s just another human being.
Elordi plays Oliver with a quiet, trembling vulnerability. He doesn’t beg for attention. He doesn’t scream. He just... absorbs. And that’s what makes him dangerous. Because when you absorb enough, you start to change. You start to want what they have. Not just the money. The power. The silence. The way they can disappear people without anyone noticing.
Fennell’s direction here is surgical. She lingers on empty hallways, untouched breakfasts, and closed doors. The house itself feels alive-watching, waiting. Every shot feels like a secret being passed between the walls.
Luxury as a Weapon
The production design in Saltburn isn’t just beautiful-it’s brutal. The house is a museum of inherited wealth: velvet drapes, marble floors, oil paintings of ancestors who never smiled. The food is elaborate, the wine is old, the clothes are tailored by hand. But none of it feels warm. It’s all cold. Perfect. Lifeless.
There’s a dinner scene where the family sits around a table that could seat twenty. Only six people are there. The rest of the chairs are empty. No one moves to fill them. No one even looks at them. It’s not neglect. It’s indifference. And that’s the real horror.
The luxury isn’t there to impress. It’s there to exclude. To remind Oliver, over and over, that he doesn’t belong-not even in the space he’s been invited to. And yet, he stays. Because for the first time in his life, he feels seen. Even if it’s only because he’s the odd one out.
The Ending Isn’t Shocking-It’s Inevitable
People talk about the ending of Saltburn like it’s a twist. It’s not. It’s the logical conclusion of everything that came before. The film doesn’t trick you. It lures you. Slowly. Quietly. Like a tide pulling sand from under your feet.
The final act doesn’t rely on violence or screaming. It relies on stillness. On silence. On a single look across a room. And that’s what makes it stick. You don’t gasp. You freeze. You realize, too late, that you’ve been complicit. You’ve been watching Oliver get consumed, and you didn’t look away.
Fennell doesn’t give you a villain. She gives you a system. The Cattons aren’t monsters. They’re just what happens when privilege goes unchallenged for generations. And Oliver? He’s not a victim. He’s a mirror. He shows you what happens when you trade your dignity for a seat at the table.
Who Is This Film For?
Saltburn isn’t for everyone. If you want a clean story with heroes and villains, look elsewhere. This isn’t a movie about justice. It’s about decay. About what happens when you let someone else define your worth.
It’s for the people who’ve ever felt like they didn’t belong. For the ones who’ve pretended to laugh at jokes they didn’t get. For the ones who’ve stared at a photo of someone else’s life and wondered, What if I could just… be that?
It’s for the people who’ve been invited to the party, only to realize the invitation was never about them. It was about the spectacle of their presence.
What Makes It Different From Other Wealthy-People-Drama Films?
There are plenty of films about rich people being awful. Succession. The Great Gatsby. Parasite. But Saltburn is different. It doesn’t mock the rich. It doesn’t glorify them. It doesn’t even try to explain them.
It shows how they operate. How they move. How they breathe. And how they leave people behind-without even noticing they’re gone.
Where Parasite uses satire and violence to expose inequality, Saltburn uses beauty and silence. It’s quieter. More intimate. More personal. And that’s why it hurts more.
The film doesn’t ask you to hate the Cattons. It asks you to recognize them. Because they’re not fictional. They’re real. And they’re everywhere.
Final Thoughts: A Film That Stays With You
Saltburn doesn’t end when the credits roll. It ends when you’re lying in bed at 3 a.m., staring at the ceiling, wondering if you’ve ever been invited somewhere just to be used as decoration. If you’ve ever smiled through a conversation you didn’t understand. If you’ve ever let someone else decide who you are.
It’s not a movie you watch. It’s a mirror you’re forced to hold up.
Fennell didn’t make a film about class. She made a film about the cost of wanting to belong. And that’s the most dangerous thing of all.