Pillion review: Harry Melling accepts Alexander Skarsgård as his biker daddy in an A24 crowd-pleaser

In Harry Lighton's feature-length directorial debut Pillion, a gay introvert's delayed coming-of-age — catalyzed by the advances of a suave, reclusive biker — kicks off a raucous tale of physical and emotional exploration. Although initially sketched in broad strokes, the movie gradually digs into its sexual complications, centering on a dominant-submissive dynamic that lives in the gray area of consent.

Like its 1970s-set source material — Adam Mars-Jones' 2020 leather subculture novel Box Hill — Lighton's electric, modern-day British drama explores a master-slave relationship that's as upsetting as it is invigorating. Led by a pair of fine-tuned performances from Alexander Skarsgård and Harry Melling, the movie walks a fragile tonal tightrope with remarkable flair, resulting in one of the finest (and most crowd-pleasing) experiences at this year's Cannes Film Festival.

What is Pillion about?

Named for the backseat of a motorcycle, Pillion is as much about function as it is companionship, and what happens when those wires are crossed. Worrywart parking attendant Colin (Harry Melling) and secretive motorcycle club leader Ray (Alexander Skarsgård) ought to be ships in the night, as evidenced by the movie's dreamlike, tongue-in-cheek opening.

Colin sits quietly in the backseat of his parents' car as they drive him to a pub performance by his barbershop quartet — of which his father (Douglas Hodge) is also a member — which also happens to be a blind date organized by his mum (Lesley Sharp). Colin is gay, and his parents are politely supportive to the point of overcompensating. In a fleeting tryst with destiny, Colin's vacant gaze out the car window falls upon a mysterious biker as he zips by, his face obscured by his helmet visor, and his slender, toned body clad in leather gear. For a moment, it seems like they lock eyes, but Colin can't be sure.

After his uptight, old-school acapella performance — complete with  pinstripe suit and bowtie — his eyes fall once again on the very same biker, sitting across the room: Ray, a dashing American keeping to himself. The timid crooner extends his boater hat for a tip. Ray ignores him. However, as the night wears on, Ray eventually makes his approach, buys Colin a few bags of crisps — like an adult humoring a child — before slipping him a note, asking him to meet him the following evening.

The inexperienced, scraggly-haired Colin is immediately taken. His parents are enthusiastic too, since their son is finally leaving the house for a social engagement. It's funny and sweet, but the movie soon swerves headfirst into the awkward comedy-drama of wildly differing expectations. What Colin figured would be a romantic evening dovetails quickly into a skeevy, back-alley blowjob. As the cruising, cocksure Ray bosses him around, Colin realizes he likes being told what to do.

Before long, Ray conscripts Colin into a dynamic that the young virgin doesn't understand at first (though Ray assumes he does). What Colin thinks is a booty call turns out to be a demand to clean Ray's house and make him dinner. A request to spend the night at Ray's apartment gives way to orders to sleep on Ray's bedroom carpet, alongside his black Labrador. Their sexual encounters involve humiliation rituals and wrestling, which Colin isn't fully prepared for, though he takes a liking to it.

The rest of Ray's biker club — subs and doms of all stripes, played by real members of the leather scene — are a delightful bunch, and they welcome Colin with open arms, but Ray is a closed book who won't so much as reveal his occupation. The more Colin tries to push Ray to open up, the more he shuts him out, insisting their dynamic is not, and cannot be, one of emotions.

Pillion is an impressive tonal balancing act.

As the film goes on, it centers the questions of how far Ray will push Colin on the presumption of enthusiastic consent, and to what degree Colin will let himself be dominated if it means being desired for the very first time. These combine to create a prolonged and riveting tension, which isn't so much cut by humor as it is enhanced by it.

Colin, for instance, is so hung up on the idea of a traditional romance that he meets even Ray's distinctly untraditional treatment with naïve requests, like asking Ray to dinner with his parents. These scenes are downright side-splitting thanks to Melling's straight-faced delivery, and Ray's silent bewilderment in response. However, Lighton isn't satisfied with letting these instances slip away. They are, after all, some of the movie's most dramatically interesting moments too, and some of its most thematically lucid.

While neither man comes right out and lists their desires, they fight to express their wants and expectations in the only ways they know how, jogging right up to the line of explicitness before walking back. The film probes ever deeper into what this relationship — or any relationship — becomes when there's a breakdown of communication, and both parties start acting out. It just so happens that Colin and Ray exist at an extreme end of the spectrum when it comes to socially acceptable taste, though the movie never calls their desires into question.

If anything, the fact that Colin does not (and perhaps, cannot) explain their relationship to his parents is about the only thing that leads to incredulity, when their sweet boy suddenly shows up with a shaven head and a bike lock around his neck. The film derives its humor not from condescension, but from the unease of transformation. However, it also uses this as a source for some of its most affirming moments too — often shot in slow-motion, with a gentle hand — both when Colin finds unexpected self-confidence, and when Ray realizes he might just enjoy something more intimate in return.

Harry Melling and Aleksander Skarsgård deliver career-best work in Pillion.

 In a film so dependent on neither lead character speaking their mind, you need actors who can do the heavy lifting in silence. You also need actors who can meet Lighton on his complicated tonal wavelength, and who neither get bogged down by the story's slowly rupturing emotions, nor swept up in its energetic humor.

Melling and Skarsgård are more than up to the task. Lighton uses their respective "types" from their mainstream genre success — as Harry Potter's oafish cousin Dudley, and True Blood's sexy vampire antihero Eric Northman — as jumping-off points to launch an investigation into how being seen a certain way can mold your outlook on the world, and your sense of self. This is especially true when sex and relationships are involved, and neither actor is afraid to access the vulnerability required for its many sexual moments, verging on pornographically explicit.

If anything, that's the easy part. What's more challenging is the way Melling navigates the gestures, the body language, and the all-permeating uncertainty of the kind of character whose embarrassment in social situations is generally the root of comedic scorn. Pillion is the kind of movie that knows full well what people find funny, and it doesn't begrudge them that. But it also forces them to confront the reasons why in the long run, using Melling's moving, captivating performance as a prism, and eventually, a mirror to lifelong anxiety and self-loathing. As a young man in search of himself through the demands of another person, he compliments each broad comedic stroke with a tremendously nuanced look at its effects, whether they gradually break him down, build him up, or some combination of the two.

It also helps to be paired opposite an exceptionally attractive Skarsgård, who's always had a magnetic presence but whose build and poise are practically otherworldly in this film. As Ray, he runs so hot and cold as to sear your flesh and give you frostbite in alternating strokes. After a while, his behavior becomes its own form of mystery, assisted by Lighton's lingering medium shots that capture both his body language and expressions at once — his naked torso and his obfuscated sense of self. However, Pillion doesn't seek to present answers that Ray doesn't want to give, or that Colin cannot find. Because in a film about the complexities of being pushed away — how it devastates and allures in equal measure — being presented with something concrete would mean losing out on the abstract mysteries Ray represents for Colin's mutating sense of self.

To call a queer performance involving nudity "brave" is an age-old cliché, but Skarsgård and Melling's bravery is revealed not through performing queerness. Rather, it's a result of accessing male vulnerability, to such a riveting degree that you perfectly understand the emotional deadlock of what one character desperately wants and the other deeply needs. The slow collision of these two forces is the heart and soul of Pillion, and it makes for some of the most entertaining drama and comedy you're likely to see this year.

Pillion was reviewed out of the 2025 Cannes Film Festival. It is slated for a 2025 release.