When I left Saltburn, the second feature film from love-her-or-hate-her shock jock director Emerald Fennell, my initial thought opposed the scandalized chatter I heard while exiting the theater. “That was it?” I asked myself, and then out loud to my friend, who agreed that the film we had just seen—one that had been touted by audiences and some fellow critics as a masterclass in provocation—was pretty conventional. For my money, Saltburn is neither a film that is particularly outrageous, nor is it as second-rate as those who don’t buy into its allegedly appalling sights might like you to believe.
Make no mistake, most viewers are firmly in the first camp, judging by the reactions of every other person in my sold-out theater besides my party of two. There are a handful of scenes in Saltburn that make no attempt to hide their attempt at audience instigation, and the pearl-clutching Philistines sitting around us were lapping it up like cats at a saucer of milk, offering gasps and hushed cries of “Oh my God!” every 20 minutes. But those kinds of responses have generated an intriguing counterreaction, one that chides audiences like this for taking the bait, and in turn, scolds Fennell for making such an obvious film.
But before anyone is tried at The Hague for simply enjoying this movie—a consensus I mostly agree with—I think there’s something that both sides of this argument are glossing over: Saltburn is actually really fucking hot.
