Pillion

The relationship between sex and cinema has always been and will always be controversial. From films like Secretary to Fifty Shades Of Grey, responses to on-screen depictions of unconventional sexual dynamics are polarizing. These reactions are formed by two key aspects: public opinion and the intent behind the filmmaker. We of course cannot pretend that the latter film will ever come to have a newfound appreciation later down the line, as any retrospective analysis will still be dissecting the same problematic approach to consent and dominant-submissive dynamics. In contrast, more recent appraisals of Steven Shainberg’s Secretary have forgone antiquated collective negativity in favour of a more modern reading of how it explores these dynamics. It is within this evolved media landscape that Pillion arrives, one where the content is not immediately vilified but instead given space for a proper analysis that deconstructs taboos. 

The film distinguishes itself by recontextualizing BDSM as something beyond a source of conflict or a fantasy, leveraging its cultural connotations to put forth a universal story of self-discovery. Finding this ubiquity within a previously maligned subject matter perfectly encapsulates the middle ground this film operates in, towing the line between the raunchy and the achingly human. This is not a story about kink for titillation's sake, but about identity. The film presents a powerful paradox: within the consensual, negotiated surrender of control, a person can, perhaps for the first time, locate their truest voice and forge a genuine sense of agency. 

This is exemplified in Colin’s transformation, played with a charming aloofness by Harry Melling. He evolves from a man defined by shyness to one who understands the precise grammar of his own desire. The journey is not perfect, but the restraints and rules of his role as Ray’s “pillion” provide the perfect catalyst for his self-discovery. The film is refreshingly honest in its depiction of personal boundaries, with every rule and ritual within the relationship acting as a mirror that reflects a clearer image of who Colin is and what he desires. It is within this growth that director Harry Lighton makes an astute observation: the ultimate power in a dominant-submissive dynamic is not the dominant's control, but the submissive's power to grant that control, a conscious act that requires and builds immense self-knowledge. Colin’s arc is one of deeper introspection, using the vehicle of surrender to arrive at the destination of self-possession. 

This inward journey is physically manifested by the anonymous, leather-clad world Colin enters, a subculture where the mask of the biker becomes the perfect metaphor for the self being discovered. The anonymity found within this tribe is not one of absence, but of profound potential for self-expression. The biker’s helmet and leather outfits function as more than a fashion statement; they are a form of protection and persona, echoing the armour of post-WWII leathermen and queering the uniforms of the military. This blend of hyper-masculinity and anonymity harkens to nomadic figures of the west, wanderers who find freedom on the open road, living beyond rigid conventions. 

In this context, the mask is a gateway. Assuming a different character allows both partners to shed their daily persona and access a more vulnerable state. Therefore, Colin’s submission is not just to a man but to an entire ecosystem of masked intimacy. Within this space, he is defined not by his past, but by his chosen role. The leather and helmets that hide him from the world are what allow him, perhaps for the first time, to be truly seen in a skin he feels comfortable in. 

Lighton, however, refuses to let the relationship remain in a perfect stasis, honestly portraying the growing pains of a first-time D/S dynamic. This is where the magic of Alexander Skarsgård’s casting as Ray is truly revealed. His performance is a masterclass in quiet duality, seeming protective and concerned in one moment, then exacting and distant in another. Ray is a man who clearly favours the anonymity of the arrangement, finding peace in isolation rather than connection. This makes his eventual departure not a narrative betrayal, but the final, necessary lesson in Colin’s education. The film deftly deconstructs the “fixer-upper” fantasy of films like Fifty Shades of Grey; some people enter our lives not to stay, but to show us who we are meant to become. 

And while this could seem like a downbeat note, the final moments are filled with a powerful hope. We see Colin, alone but no longer lonely, addressing his boundaries with newfound clarity. This is the ultimate demonstration of his hard-won agency. He is no longer a passive pillion, but the author of his own desires. 

Pillion ultimately transcends its subcultural trappings to offer a moving testament to the universal journey of self-possession. By looking beyond the leather and the theatrics of power, it locates a profound and relatable truth. That truth is that we must sometimes willingly lose ourselves within a role to truly discover who we are at our core. It is a confident, nuanced, and ultimately hopeful ride that marks a significant step forward in cinema's ability to portray the intricate relationship between surrender and strength.

8.5/10