Why Was Saltburn so Bad?
I finally watched Saltburn last night. I was not surprised that it was bad. After all, it’s been out for a while, and many people have told me that it is bad. I was, however, kind of amazed at the way in which it was bad.
Saltburn is, on paper, a movie I should adore. In fact, I actually remember seeing a preview of it months ago, and whispering to my boyfriend that we’d obviously have to go see it. Brideshead Revisited for our time, with luxurious clothes, luxurious English country house, luxurious parties. And throughout it a thread of unhinged depravity, wild scenes of sex and violence and scheming and general creepiness. It was all perfectly tailored to my tastes.
The thing is—the movie was a miserable watch, not in spite of the fact that it was so perfectly suited to my tastes, but rather because it was so suited to my tastes. Saltburn is too tailored, too aware of its own schtick, too thrilled by its own attempted edginess and maximalism. It’s haunted by its own gorgeous reflection, dogged by its self-perception. Thus: Jacob Elordi bathwater, drinking of menstrual blood, fucking a fresh gravestone. Also, a lot of murder.
Self-awareness in art can be compelling, but self-consciousness rarely is. Saltburn is self-conscious. At every moment, the movie was glancing over its shoulder at me, asking “did you see that? Did you get the Waugh reference, was it clever? Did you see he drank the bathwater? Did we shock you? Did we scare you? Aren’t we wild?”
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