PILLION
Reviewed by Sean Cook
4.5 out of 5 stars
In the post-Heated Rivalry world where every gay male film or TV show is apparently obliged to be measured against the hockey phenomenon – Pillion plays like its working-class British cousin: less sheen, fewer gym-sculpted bodies (Alexander Skarsgard aside), and a whole lot more grit. It’s populated mostly by convincingly ordinary-looking people (again: Skarsgard aside), and while it’s just as sexual as its glossy peer, the sex here isn’t airbrushed or choreographed. It’s frank, funny, and distinctly unvarnished – more “let it all hang out” BDSM. Which may mean it won’t hit the same sweet spot for the predominantly female fandom that’s obsessed with Heated Rivalry, but hey, I’m down with that. Not because there’s anything wrong with mass appeal – I too have entered The Church of Hollandov – but because it’s genuinely nice to be reminded that queer cinema still gets to be for queer audiences.
Skarsgard has described Pillion on the press circuit as a “dom-com.” He’s not wrong, exactly – there’s plenty of comedy, and the film is steeped in BDSM culture – but the label slightly undersells what it’s doing. Yes, it’s sharp and frequently hilarious, but it’s also unexpectedly tender: a film with real pathos, and a quietly persuasive argument for choosing the direction of your own life rather than being carried along by someone else’s.
The title is the key. A “pillion” is the passenger seat behind a motorcyclist, and Pillion is, at heart, about what it means to stop riding behind someone – sexually, emotionally, existentially – and start steering.
Our protagonist Colin (a wonderfully tuned-in Harry Melling) is a shy, gentle soul who sings with a barbershop quartet and still lives at home with parents who are charmingly, almost aggressively supportive. They want him to find a nice boyfriend and settle down. Then, on Christmas Eve, Ray turns up at the bar Colin is singing at: a leather-clad biker with the kind of presence that rearranges a room’s atmosphere. Ray doesn’t so much flirt as take command, and Colin’s life is abruptly, thrillingly reconfigured.
Colin enters into a submissive dynamic with Ray that brings him both sexual fulfilment and a crash course in domestic servitude. Ray sets the rules, demands a lot, gives little. He’s a fortress of a man: withholding, controlled, and, crucially, uninterested in the kind of emotional intimacy Colin begins to crave. As Colin grows bolder – more assured in what he wants and more articulate about asking for it – the relationship becomes something more complicated than a kinky fantasy. The film’s real interest lies not in shock or titillation, but in the way desire can be both liberating and limiting, and how self-knowledge often arrives with consequences.
Without giving anything away: Pillion gives generous space to both Colin’s home life and Ray’s BDSM orbit, and finds tenderness in each without sanding off their edges. Leslie Sharp is terrific as Colin’s mother, grounding the family scenes with warmth and specificity, and there’s a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it cameo from Scissor Sisters’ Jake Shears that lands like a little gift.
If there’s a quibble, it’s that Colin is by far the more fully realised of the two leads. Melling’s performance gives you a whole inner weather system; Ray, by comparison, can feel more opaque than intriguing, and I occasionally wanted the film to push harder at what’s going on behind the visor. Still, it’s a minor niggle in a film that’s consistently funny, often moving, and refreshingly unglossy.
Ultimately, whether you’re dom, sub, or simply curious, Pillion makes its case with a wink and a lump in the throat: don’t spend your life riding pillion. Take the front seat.
