‘Pillion’: Reuse, Repeat, Re-do.
- Maddy Maguire
- 3 hours ago
- 4 min read
Harry Lighton’s directorial debut, Pillion (2025), is everything it says on the tin and more. Inspired by Adam Mars-Jones’s novel, Box Hill (2020), we follow the relationship—or, perhaps more appropriately, arrangement—shared between two gay men living in south-east London—one an unassuming, barbershop-singing parking warden, and the other a mysterious, unabashedly kinky biker. It’s about BDSM. It’s sexy and cool and hilarious, and it pulls no punches in its depictions of the erotic. And yet, it is profoundly beautiful and wonderfully heartbreaking - a film which seeks to turn you inside out.
Rather fittingly, we first meet our characters on the road. Colin, portrayed by Harry Melling, is a passenger. Literally, in the sense that his dad chauffeurs him around, and figuratively, in that his life is contained to and performed for his family. He lives with his parents, goes on blind dates set up by his mum, and sings at his local pub in a quartet to an audience made up of doting relatives. It’s all endearingly pathetic, really. Staring out of the window, on his way to a performance, we catch our first glimpse of Ray, played by Alexander Skarsgård, on his motorbike—overtaking Colin’s dad as Betty Curtis’s Chariot (1962) plays. He speeds away, out of sight. We must notice that his pillion (the secondary seat of a bike, behind the motorcyclist) is unoccupied. It is an opening sequence perfectly emblematic of what is to unfold; a foretelling of the dynamic soon to develop between these two strangers.
After slamming his number down in front of Colin at the bar, Ray invites his new beau out on Christmas Day and bags himself some comically lacklustre oral sex round the back of a Primark. Romantic, right? For Colin, it seems so. Months are spent trying to win Ray’s full attention. And, once granted, it is not given in the way expected. He is invited to cook and clean for Ray, made to sleep at the foot of the bed, whilst the dog, Rosie, can settle where she pleases. The BDSM we were promised abruptly begins. Lighton is also careful to solidify this power imbalance, so essential to the film’s plot, through the clever staging and blocking of his actors on screen—Ray’s entire body swallowing Colin whole in certain shots, and Colin hanging around in the background, motionless, like a forgotten piece of furniture. “An aptitude for devotion” is Colin’s way of describing the manner in which he submits himself so readily to the demands made of him. He shaves his head, abandons his old life, and it’s enough. Until it isn’t at all, and the emotional carnage ensues.
“Love”, Colin says, is “everything”. And, as unlikely as it sounds, Pillion is a film about just that. Most appreciated is Lighton’s refusal to give us a black and white answer to things. The community he portrays, of gay, leather-wearing bikers, is diverse in its displays of intimacy. These are human connections, characterised by different boundaries and values, and what happens between Ray and Colin is cheapened if thought of as nothing more than the product of fetish. There’s a pointed lack of on-screen communication held between them. We never quite know where we stand. And so, a real, relatable sort of insecurity surfaces—common to any new or blossoming relationship. What is this thing they’re doing? Can it be given a name? What’s the next step?
It’s fair to say that Ray isn’t a good person. Although the audience is not granted access to his interior self, the conflict his time with Colin stirs within him is made clear. There are lingering looks and bursts of anger—masterfully performed by Skarsgård—when these questions of ‘more’ arise. His lack of emotional availability is contrasted with other members of the gang, and slowly, the mask is removed. But then it’s quickly pulled back on, and confusion prevails to the detriment of everything. Such is life. Such are relationships.
The intention, it seems, is not to suggest that this community Colin finds himself a part of is inherently flawed. Ray is Ray, and, though his actions can be rationalised as adhering to the fantasy of absolute dominance he enjoys, he hurts Colin. It is a space devoid of heteronormative expectations and an opportunity for self-discovery; it also allows for a rare depiction of a dynamic which is strictly homosexual. The problem, however, is that, rather than navigating it on his own terms, Colin has simply switched from one passenger seat to the other. And so, as the film ends, it’s satisfying to see him claw back some sense of autonomy, and even more so to know that this does not simply mean a return to more traditional standards.
Pillion, then, is a timeless tale of how love impedes identity—painful, a little bit embarrassing, and, in this world of Lighton’s, butt-plug-requiring. It masquerades its darkness behind lightness, and it’s the sort of film you can’t help but think about for days afterwards. Both Melling and Skarsgård deliver marvellous performances, and their chemistry is undeniable. A highly promising debut, indeed.
Edited by Lara Walsh, Co-Film & TV Editor
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