Harry Lighton’s debut feature, Pillion, adapts Adam Mars-Jones’s 2020 novella Box Hill into a modern, unflinching exploration of desire and self-discovery. Set in suburban Bromley, the film follows Colin (Harry Melling), a reserved traffic warden whose predictable life—marked by barbershop quartet rehearsals and family dinners—tilts on its axis when he encounters Ray (Alexander Skarsgård), a stoic biker with a penchant for leather and instruction.
Their chance meeting at a pub leads Colin down a path of submission, in which he finds unexpected strength through consent-based power exchange. Lighton unfolds this narrative with a tone that balances tenderness and eroticism, punctuated by moments of sharp humour.
Colin’s journey from introspective novice to self-assured participant carries the emotional weight of the story, while Ray’s measured authority conceals deeper vulnerabilities. At its centre, Pillion probes how the act of yielding control can paradoxically grant agency, charting a path toward belonging beyond familiar routines.
Suburban Calm and Biker Chaos
Bromley, a commuter town ten miles southeast of London, unfolds as a landscape of familiar comforts: picket-fenced homes, Sunday barbershop performances, and tight-knit family routines. Lighton’s camera lingers on the muted hues of Colin’s neighbourhood—brick terraces, neatly trimmed lawns—establishing a sense of ordered predictability. The hum of traffic wardens’ fluorescent vests and the measured cadence of quartet rehearsals underscore the film’s opening mood, where every detail feels safely mapped.
When Colin steps into Ray’s domain—a leather-clad world of revving engines and clubhouses—the change hits like a shift in engine tone. Black-leather jackets, chrome gleaming under dim garage lights, and motorbike growls replace suburban beige. In this enclave, ritual holds sway: silent commands, tattooed allegiances, and the subtle exchange of power. The air is thick with oil and unspoken promises, a sensory jolt against Colin’s pastel routine.
Lighton stages this transition through side-by-side scenes—Colin folding laundry on kitchen countertops, then kneeling on concrete garage floors at Ray’s instruction—inviting viewers to feel how displacement can ignite desire. The moment he crosses from tarmac to alleyway marks not just a change of pace, but an entry into a realm where rules are redrawn. This sensory shift sets the stage for Colin’s transformation.
Dynamics of Power and Performance
At the heart of Pillion lies the interplay between Colin and Ray, anchored by performances that feel lived-in rather than staged. Melling’s portrayal begins with a defining stillness: Colin moves through his flat with a tentative posture, voice low, shy. His first bloom comes under pub lights when he sings with his quartet—an anchor of safety that hints at hidden yearning.
The screen crackles in the alley scene where Ray’s single command sends Colin kneeling. Melling captures the sweep from startled compliance to an eager embrace of his role, tracing Colin’s arc through subtle gestures—a fidget in his fingers when calling out orders, a sharpening gaze as he learns to speak his own needs.
Skarsgård’s Ray issues commands with a few clipped words but carries unspoken backstory in the curve of his shoulders and the flash of his tattoos. Ray’s balance of menace and reserve keeps viewers guessing where compassion might emerge.
Pete and Peggy, brought to life by Douglas Hodge and Lesley Sharp, ground the drama in familial care. Their hope for Colin’s happiness warps into worry when his new routines defy their expectations, especially Peggy’s concern as her health falters.
The biker community supplies a chorus of acceptance; fellow submissives nod in silent solidarity. Key moments—the grocery list text that transforms from chore into intimacy, the surprise birthday gathering—mark shifts in trust as Colin negotiates limits. These scenes serve as signposts on his trajectory from outsider to full participant.
Themes, Tone and Technical Craft
Pillion examines submission as a route to identity rather than mere erotic spectacle. Colin’s consent to Ray’s demands reveals a journey of self-definition: he sheds suburban timidity to claim desire as a tool for growth. This portrayal upends the usual victim narrative by privileging agency within a power exchange.
Power and vulnerability intersect in both directions: as Colin yields control, he uncovers resilience; as Ray directs, glimpses of emotional need surface in fleeting gestures. Their dynamic probes how structured dependence can foster mutual discovery.
Two communities frame this exploration: Colin’s family, whose unconditional support grounds him in familiar affection, and Ray’s biker circle, which offers an alternative support network based on shared rituals. The contrast between these spheres highlights how belonging can emerge in unexpected forms.
By embedding a queer BDSM relationship within familiar contexts, the film positions itself amid recent efforts to broaden cinematic representations, treating kink as a credible lens on intimacy.
Lighton’s visual language alternates between composed framing and abrupt cuts, reflecting Colin’s oscillation between routine and submission. Cinematographer Nick Morris opts for steady, observant shots during explicit sequences, allowing them to land without sensational flair. The palette shifts from soft pastels in suburban interiors to stark blacks and metallic greys in the biker hangouts, letting colour underscore emotional register.
A minimalist score—barbershop harmonies give way to sparse piano chords—guides viewers through intimacy milestones, its restraint echoing the film’s measured tone. Scenes of trust are choreographed under Robbie Taylor-Hunt’s eye, ensuring explicit content feels anchored in character intent rather than exploitation.
Pacing moves with deliberate patience: domestic chores occupy screen time alongside more intense encounters, granting moments of reflection. This balance stops the film from feeling rushed or voyeuristic, inviting attention to how each beat serves the evolving relationship.
Pillion is a British drama film that premiered on May 18, 2025, in the Un Certain Regard section at the Cannes Film Festival.
Full Credits
Director: Harry Lighton
Writers: Harry Lighton (screenplay), Adam Mars-Jones (novel)
Producers: Emma Norton, Ed Guiney, Andrew Lowe, Lee Groombridge
Executive Producers: Alexander Skarsgård, Eva Yates, Louise Ortega, Claire Binns, Pim Hermeling, Alison Thompson, Mark Gooder, Christian Vesper
Cast: Harry Melling, Alexander Skarsgård, Douglas Hodge, Lesley Sharp, Jake Shears, Anthony Welsh, Georgina Hellier, Brian Martin, Zamir Mesiti
Director of Photography (Cinematographer): Nick Morris
Editor: Gareth C. Scales
Composer: Oliver Coates
The Review
Pillion
Pillion succeeds as a measured, emotionally rich exploration of power and identity. Harry Lighton’s steady direction and the nuanced performances of Harry Melling and Alexander Skarsgård transform a provocative premise into a thoughtful study of consent, community, and self-discovery. Its deliberate pacing and quiet moments lend weight to the film’s boldest scenes, making it both engaging and unexpectedly tender.
PROS
- Nuanced exploration of consent and agency
- Strong, transformative performances by Melling and Skarsgård
- Balanced tone—erotic intensity tempered by genuine tenderness
- Thoughtful pacing that allows character growth
- Grounded setting that heightens emotional stakes
CONS
- Narrative focus can feel narrow, with limited subplots
- Explicit scenes may alienate some viewers
- Supporting characters receive minimal development
- Occasional tonal shifts verge on abrupt
