A meek and aimless young gay man finds comfort, if not love, in an unorthodox relationship with a dominant biker in Pillion, now playing in Prague cinemas after debuting in the Un Certain Regard section of the 2025 Cannes Film Festival and opening in UK cinemas late last year. This disarmingly frank depiction of a BDSM dynamic between two emotionally mismatched partners scores points for its rugged authenticity and strong central performances, though the film’s black-and-white approach to its central relationship can become frustrating.
Based on the novella Box Hill by Adam Mars-Jones, Pillion marks an assured feature debut for writer-director Harry Lighton, who brings a confident visual and tonal control to material that deliberately avoids conventional romantic storytelling beats. Harry Melling stars as Colin, a shy traffic warden still living with his parents in suburban London who is flattered by romantic interest from handsome biker Ray (Alexander Skarsgård), a walking embodiment of hypersexualized masculinity—but he’s a little less impressed by the dominant-submissive relationship he quickly finds himself indoctrinated into.
There is little ambiguity from the outset about where this relationship is heading emotionally, even if its sexual dynamic is initially framed as liberating for Colin. What follows is less a story of mutual discovery than a slow and often uncomfortable reckoning with incompatibility, though Lighton’s knowing sense humor generates some unexpected laughs.
Colin may be hopelessly attracted to Ray, but it is quickly apparent that his interest in submission does not extend to the rigid lifestyle Ray demands. From sleeping on the floor to total emotional and domestic obedience, Colin participates out of desire and inertia rather than genuine alignment, and unlike the novella, Lighton’s script largely removes any question of whether he truly belongs in this world.
As a result, much of the dramatic tension rests on a single, increasingly inevitable question: when will Colin finally admit what is obvious to the viewer—that this arrangement is not sustainable for him? This positioning makes Ray feel, at least structurally, more like an antagonist than a partner, even if the film resists defining him in such blunt terms. But it is Colin who becomes less a passive victim than a character who repeatedly fails to articulate his own limits, and ultimately sours their relationship.
That imbalance might have been more compelling if the film allowed greater uncertainty in how both men interpret their arrangement. Instead, Pillion leans toward a more rigid interpretation of BDSM dynamics, closer in spirit to Fifty Shades of Grey, in which participation in an unconventional sexual dynamic is depicted as purely transactional. Here, it is Colin who trades in discomfort in order to have a partner who would otherwise be unobtainable.
A more interesting presentation of this dynamic can be found in Secretary, with James Spader and Maggie Gyllenhaal, which offered a more fluid and psychologically ambiguous depiction of dominance and submission. Key difference: that film allowed both characters to find satisfaction within their roles. That line of thought briefly appears in Pillion in the form of Kevin (Jake Shears), a more self-assured submissive whose presence subtly underscores how different Colin’s experience might have been in a healthier dynamic.
There isn’t much beyond the central relationship here, but Pillion is elevated significantly by its two lead performances. Skarsgård brings a controlled intensity to Ray that avoids caricature, while Melling delivers a deeply internalized performance that makes Colin’s passivity feel emotionally legible rather than simply frustrating. Both actors find moments of warmth within roles that could easily have become rigid archetypes, grounding the relationship in something that feels relatable.
Lighton’s direction, meanwhile, favors a restrained realism. Shot on understated, somewhat drab English locations by Nick Morris, the film avoids stylization in favor of a grounded, almost observational tone. This extends to its soundscape, where Oliver Coates’ evocative original score is paired with carefully chosen retro needle drops, including an Italian cover of I Will Follow Him and Tiffany’s I Think We’re Alone Now, adding a slightly ironic emotional counterpoint to the film’s otherwise muted aesthetic.
The supporting cast provides additional texture without overwhelming the central narrative. Lesley Sharp and Douglas Hodge bring a unexpected warmness to Colin’s parents, offering a rare depiction of parental acceptance that contrasts with the more typical cinematic framing of queer relationships.
Pillion succeeds most as a character study and a showcase for two finely calibrated performances rather than as a fully rounded exploration of BDSM relationships. Its commitment to explicitness and lived-in authenticity is undeniable, and Lighton demonstrates a confident directorial voice in his feature debut, maintaining a steady tonal control throughout and refusing to sensationalize the subject matter.
