Release Date: US Limited: February 6, 2026; expanded Feb 20, 2026
Runtime: 107 minutes (1h 47 min)
Rated: R – severe sex and nudity, moderate profanity, and mild violence
Production Companies: Element Pictures, BBC Film, BFI
Producers: Emma Norton, Lee Groombridge, Ed Guiney, Andrew Lowe
Cinematography: Nick Morris
Editing: Gareth C. Scales
Music/Composer: Oliver Coates
Pillion (2025)
Director & Writer: Harry Lighton (based on the novel Box Hill by Adam Mars-Jones)
Cast: Harry Melling, Alexander Skarsgård, Lesley Sharp, Douglas Hodge, Anthony Welsh, Jake Shears, Paul Tallis, Billy King
Just in time for Valentine’s Day, Harry Lighton sheds a light on the highs and lows of love — and an unorthodox relationship — within a misunderstood community. Pillion finds our innocent, hopeless romantic Colin (Harry Melling) at a crossroads with his love life and self-identity, even getting set up by his mother Peggy (Lesley Sharp) on dates, only to find himself eventually caught up in a messy entanglement at the hands of Ray (Alexander Skarsgård), a member of a local biker gang.
Adapted from the 2020 novella Box Hill: A Story of Low Self-Esteem by British author Adam Mars-Jones, Lighton makes several deliberate changes in bringing this story to the screen. Modernizing the tale from the 1970s to present day, he also subtly reshapes themes preserved within the characters and their arcs. The book is more fixated on Colin’s weight and self-hatred; the film instead chooses to shift its lens toward his emotional growth and the development of his internal boundaries. Lighton also softens Ray’s characterization, opting for a more ambiguous tone in their relationship dynamics. In doing so, he allows the audience to actively participate in the conversations surrounding consent and power rather than dictating how we should feel.
Even with these changes, Lighton preserves a humorous and deeply relatable perspective of Colin. His insecurity and uncertainty are not erased, but they are not the sole focus either. Instead, Ray’s attitude toward their relationship — and the structure it takes within the BDSM community — often sits at the forefront. It creates a push and pull that feels intentional, almost studied.
Power dynamics inevitably become part of the conversation when terms like “dom” and “sub” are introduced, but this film is not a guidebook or manual to the community — it is an observation. Lighton allows scenes to unfold in a matter-of-fact, almost practical manner, placing judgment squarely in the hands of the viewer. There is no sensationalism, no exaggerated moralizing. Just lived-in moments.
Our leads hold chemistry that begins awkwardly, almost stiff in its early exchanges, but gradually grows with charm, passion, and subtle emotion — feelings that seem afraid to surface until they can no longer be contained. Where Colin is enthusiastic, naïve, and hopeful, Ray is more detached — perhaps forcefully so, to his own detriment — practical and measured in how he expresses himself. Regardless, their relationship dynamic evolves, spirals, and stumbles into territories that feel newly charted for both of them. It explores the familiar ups and downs of a budding relationship, while also venturing into spaces of exploration that are unfamiliar, particularly for Colin, who appears to be discovering parts of himself in real time.
What is truly being chiseled away at here is Colin’s self-exploration. As the film progresses and his bond with Ray deepens, so does his understanding of himself. As awkward or uncomfortable as it may be at times, the discomfort feels necessary — almost vital — to where he eventually arrives by the film’s end.
And while Colin may stand at the center of the story, Lighton does not ignore the reciprocal nature of intimacy. The relationship shapes both men — together and individually. Their identities morph not just in reaction to one another, but alongside one another.
The power imbalance may sit at the top layer of discourse — especially within ongoing conversations in queer spaces — but it also reflects something broader about relationships in general. What do people want from love? What do they think they want? What are they willing to negotiate, surrender, or reclaim? What does Ray want? What does Colin want? And by the end of the film, would their answers match what they might have said at the beginning?
Power dynamics are one thing — perhaps even foundational to the structure of their connection — but what happens when those dynamics are challenged? When vulnerability creeps in? When control shifts?
Lighton also does not shy away from the NSFW elements of his adaptation. He allows the natural beauty of the body and of sex to exist without apology. In contrast to the book’s fixation on Colin’s physical insecurities, the film presents him as more physically confident, yet emotionally inexperienced and, at times, insecure in his maturity. That physical vulnerability — that willingness to be seen — only heightens the questions of consent and emotional safety already embedded within the narrative.
While I would argue that some relationships outside the immediate cusp of Colin and Ray could have been explored further, Lighton gives us just enough to understand the ripple effects of their union. We witness Colin’s parents and their quiet concern over this newfound relationship. We observe Ray’s BDSM biker community — not caricatured, but humanized. These glimpses provide perspective not just from outsiders looking in, but from those directly orbiting their relationship bubble.
Ultimately, this is a film about finding yourself apart from your other half — or potential other half — and also discovering who you are alongside them. It is about unexpected community, about identities shifting and reshaping as intimacy deepens. It suggests that some forms of growth might not be possible without the other person standing beside you — or, in this case, seated behind you.
It is not necessarily a film that brings “awareness” to these underrepresented and often misrepresented communities in a didactic way. Rather, it brings knowledge. It brings lived experience to the table and invites us to witness instead of judge. Through Colin and Ray, we see that these communities are navigating the same universal complications: love, insecurity, companionship, and the desire to belong. They ride together. They gather together. They choose one another.
At the end of the day, as unorthodox or “different” as it may appear from your typical love story, that is all it really is — chains and gags included. We all know a Colin. We all know a Ray. At least in essence. The BDSM and biker elements may feel extreme to some and not extreme enough to others, but at its core, this is about two human spirits attempting to navigate the world together — and sometimes for each other.
Lighton plays fly on the wall with confidence and restraint, allowing us to observe as these two individuals search for their voices within the progression of their relationship. New complications arise. New feelings surface. Things neither may have anticipated at the outset begin to take shape.
In the end, Lighton successfully tackles themes of sex, power, love, relationships, and ultimately self-discovery through exploration — even when that exploration is uncomfortable. In fact, he suggests that transparency and honesty are often born from discomfort itself. And we, as viewers, take on the title of Pillion — sitting in the backseat, witnessing it all unfold in its beauty, its vulnerability, and its heartbreak.