Nick Cortes

I went into Saltburn expecting a sophisticated drama—perhaps something exploring legacy, tradition, or coming of age. What I found instead was a hollow, pretentious film that mistakes shock value for substance and trades meaningful storytelling for gratuitous spectacle. It reflects cultural decay rather than offering any real insight into the human condition. The plot completely falls apart under scrutiny. The film wants to present Oliver as a master manipulator, but his actions defy basic logic. For example, we’re shown Oliver puncturing Felix’s tire in what’s implied to be a calculated move—but at that point, he doesn’t even know Felix or have any idea who he is. There’s no reason to believe this would lead to a friendship, let alone access to wealth or inheritance. The script retroactively forces meaning into a random act, which is lazy writing disguised as brilliance. Felix’s motivations make no sense either. He’s wealthy, socially connected, and surrounded by friends—yet he becomes fixated on Oliver without any believable reason. The film hints at attraction but never commits to explaining his actions in a credible way. By the end, we’re expected to believe Oliver inherits Saltburn itself, ignoring the reality of British inheritance laws. Estates like Saltburn don’t simply pass to acquaintances. There would be legal scrutiny, trustees, extended family claims, or even reversion to the Crown. The idea that Oliver could walk in and assume ownership is absurd. Then there’s the complete lack of police involvement. Several suspicious deaths occur, yet no serious investigation takes place. In reality, any unexplained death in an aristocratic family would attract massive attention—public, legal, and media scrutiny. Here, it’s all conveniently ignored. The staff, who in real life would be loyal, observant, and protective of the estate, are depicted as mute statues. They do nothing while chaos unfolds, as if they have no agency or awareness. It’s another example of style taking precedence over substance. The depiction of parties at Saltburn is equally nonsensical. Aristocratic estates are not playgrounds. They are historic properties with cultural significance, and their owners act as custodians. The idea that they would invite random people to trash priceless art and architecture with drug-fueled debauchery shows a complete lack of understanding. Even eccentric families maintain appearances and protect their legacy. This film reduces them to caricatures, abandoning any sense of responsibility or realism. What bothered me most was the relentless commitment to shock value. The explicit scenes aren’t there to develop character or explore themes—they’re just there to provoke. The film crosses the line into pornography, but without offering insight or meaning. It panders to a culture that confuses depravity with depth and shock with sophistication. Earlier stories about decadence—whether in literature or film—served as critiques. Saltburn revels in nihilism, presenting moral emptiness as if it were a profound statement. This is not a film about wealth or privilege. It’s a film about decay—cultural, moral, and intellectual. And it offers no redemption or reflection, just spectacle for its own sake. Saltburn is all surface and no substance. If you value coherent storytelling, internal consistency, and narratives grounded in reality and truth, skip this film.