Pillion Wraps a Tale of Self-Discovery in a Tender Sub-Dom Romance
To expect a romantic partner to meet 100 percent of your emotional needs is unrealistic. But what constitutes a realistic percentage—for you, for me, for anyone? There’s no proper answer, but with his offhandedly charming romance Pillion, director Harry Lighton flirts with the possibilities. Pillion is tender in a sneaky way: without judgment, it reckons with the things humans want, in bed or outside of it, and are sometimes afraid to ask for. It’s also in tune with the reality that we’re not born knowing everything about ourselves—and where’s the fun in that, anyway? We simply learn as we go; there’s no other path.
[time-brightcove not-tgx=”true”]Harry Melling is Colin, a tender soul who lives in the comfy-boring London suburb of Bromley with his parents, who know he’s gay and fully support him—his mother, Peggy (Lesley Sharp), who’s struggling with cancer, has even tried to set him up on blind dates with nice guys she thinks might suit him. One Christmas Eve, as Colin performs at the local pub with a quaint little barbershop quartet—the other members include his almost excessively good-natured dad, Douglas Hodge’s Pete—he notices a biker gang raising a bit of hell, politely, in a corner. Shyly, he takes note of one guy in particular, a musclebound dreamboat who rudely barges ahead of him at the bar and then slips him a Christmas card scrawled with a time and a meeting place. The next day, Colin’s family wants to know exactly what type of guy arranges an assignation in a Primark parking lot on Christmas night. That type of guy is Alexander Skarsgård in a zip-up leather racing suit. Who in their right mind would say no?
Read more: Alexander Skarsgård on the Contradictions of Masculinity in Pillion
Skarsgård’s character, Ray, a dom, takes a liking to Colin, who has no idea he’s the perfect submissive until after they meet in that parking lot. Each shows up with his dog: Ray’s is a Rottweiler, Colin’s a peppy long-haired dachshund—it’s a brilliant and ridiculous sight gag, a metaphor for the way ostensibly mismatched people sometimes find one another against all odds. Ray challenges Colin to a test of strength, which Colin promptly loses. Then he unzips the crotch of his leather onesie to present Colin with the main event. Colin’s a goner, and the next thing you know, he’s preparing meals for Ray (who barely grunts his appreciation), sleeping curled up on the floor by Ray’s bed, not on it, and riding along on Ray’s motorcycle, having shaved his head and donned the custom leathers and chunky padlock choker Ray has chosen for him. Colin has learned that he loves being a servant, and he’s in a kind of love with Ray; he’s discovered, as he relays to a co-worker, that he “has an aptitude for devotion.”
Is Ray “good” for Colin? That’s beside the point, and it’s not exactly what Pillion is about. (The film is adapted from Adam Mars-Jones’ 2020 novel Box Hill.) Colin tries to keep the details of his relationship concealed from his parents, though Peggy, protective and a little too nosy, recognizes there’s something about Ray she doesn’t like; Pete, a model of equanimity, reserves judgment, seemingly acknowledging that only the people inside a relationship can know the truth of it. And it’s true that Ray isn’t nice to Colin, by design. He rarely cracks a smile, though Skarsgård, a marvelously subtle actor, shows how even this model of solid, inexpressive masculinity can’t help letting a flicker of amusement through every so often. Plus, Ray is giving Colin something he didn’t know he needed—though, as it turns out, it’s the right thing only for a time.
Pillion is a movie about self-discovery; it’s also very funny. At one point Colin, Ray, and Ray’s group of biker friends head out to the wilderness for a camping trip. The men, subs and doms alike, strip out of their leather and rubber gear and rush down to the swimming hole; their fleshy, imperfect bodies revealed, they leap into the water with boyish abandon. Later, one of the other guys gives Colin a half-hearted compliment about how great he and Ray look as a couple. (The gist is that Colin’s sweet, ordinary face only makes the perfectly chiseled Ray look even more handsome.) But then he asks Colin a serious question: Do he and Ray ever kiss? When he hears the answer, he presses further, asking if Colin misses it. This is the beginning of Colin’s realization that he ought to be able to ask for the things he wants, in addition to fulfilling the desires of others.
That’s a simple concept, but it can still take people a long time to learn it. How do you find the person who can meet you at least halfway, at the 50 per cent mark, if not at 70 or 80? Lighton finds some mutable answers to that question in his actors’ faces. Melling’s Colin is at first beaming with innocence, radiating gratitude at having found his “thing” at last—only to realize that finding it isn’t enough. And when he finally takes a stand with his demanding paramour, we learn something about Ray that isn’t spelled out in words; it’s just a shadow that passes in one fleeting moment. That’s the bittersweet beauty of Pillion: it’s about all the things you feel you can’t ask for in a relationship, only to finally realize that you can. There’s risk involved. But who ever said love and sex were comfortable, tamable things? Everything that makes them exciting also makes them emotionally dangerous. Pillion suggests that falling in love means finally reckoning with the truth that you’re not just along for the ride.