On the surface, there’s much to enjoy about Emerald Fennell’s new ‘comic thriller’. The New York Times called it ‘Brideshead for the incel age’, which has a nice ring to it, though it does give the ‘thriller’ element more weight than it deserves (incels are frightening, Saltburn is not). It works better as a comedy; there are some whip-smart one liners, largely delivered by Rosamund Pike who approximates very well what Olivia Laing once called the “lockjaw of the seriously posh”. For me, though, it’s more Brideshead for the TikTok age — perfect viewing for when you’re happy to let all your intellectual faculties leave your body.
The characters are flatly good looking, the fashions are premium early-Noughties nostalgia and the landscapes are pleasingly oversaturated. Lovely as long as you’re careful not to apply brainpower. When I did, I found myself feeling as raw and unsatisfied as the time I went on a date with a man who cried about his ex-wife after sex. In fact, Saltburn really triggered the old chip on my shoulder.
