By Mikkel Hyldebrandt
Photos: Chris Harris Courtesy of A24
Pillion (A24) arrives wrapped in biker leather, power exchange, and a premise that might make some audiences brace themselves – but what unfolds is something far more universal, humane, and unexpectedly tender. Yes, the film centers on a dom–sub relationship steeped in kink, ritual, and negotiated control. But beneath the stringent hierarchies is a sharply observed story about intimacy, compromise, visibility, and the quiet negotiations that shape all relationships, queer or otherwise.
At its core, Pillion understands something many films about sex and power miss: that kink is not a shortcut to transgression, but a language. It’s a way of communicating need, trust, fear, desire, and even love when conventional scripts fail. The film treats this dynamic not as spectacle, but as structure – one that mirrors the emotional push and pull found in any partnership. Who leads? Who yields? Who is seen, and who is protected? Strip away the gear and safe words, and what remains will feel uncomfortably familiar to anyone who has ever loved another person.
Alexander Skarsgård delivers a commanding, quietly mesmerizing performance as Ray, the dominant figure at the center of this relationship. Skarsgård has long excelled at playing men whose physical presence masks emotional complexity, and here he refines that skill to near perfection. His character is controlled, overly disciplined, and outwardly unyielding, yet Skarsgård lets small cracks form in the armor – a softer command, an escalation of intimacy, and the moment where authority gives way to genuine care and concern. It’s a performance built on restraint, which comes off as brooding at first, but builds to a powerful interpretation. His dominance is never cruel; instead, it becomes a form of responsibility, weighted with expectation and risk for something emotionally deeper.
Still, the beating heart of Pillion belongs to Harry Melling, whose performance as Colin cements him as a deeply compelling character actor. Melling brings extraordinary vulnerability, intelligence, and deep-rooted humor to his role, crafting a submissive character who is never reduced to a symbol or a trope. His physicality alone tells a story – how he holds himself, how he shrinks or expands in different spaces, how his body reacts when he feels safe versus when he feels watched, jealous, or longing. Melling allows us to see submission not as weakness, but as choice, as agency expressed through trust, and with the underlying intention of deepening the connection between the two men. It’s a brave, layered performance that embodies infinite vulnerability on an unexpected journey of self-discovery.
For LGBTQ+ audiences especially, Pillion resonates on a deeper level. The film doesn’t shy away from showing how queer relationships – particularly those that don’t conform to “palatable” norms – are still met with confusion, judgment, or outright rejection by the mainstream straight world. There’s a persistent tension between private authenticity and public performance: what is allowed behind closed doors versus what must be edited, softened, or erased to move through society safely. Pillion captures the exhaustion of that balancing act with painful accuracy, reminding us that acceptance is often conditional, even now.
What makes the film so effective is its refusal to position queerness – or kink – as the problem to be solved. The real conflict lies in miscommunication, fear of vulnerability, and the pressure to fit into narratives and structures that were never designed to hold queer complexity. In that way, Pillion feels quietly radical. It insists that love doesn’t need to be explained to be valid, and that intimacy doesn’t owe anyone else legibility.
For all its emotional weight, Pillion is also genuinely funny. The humor is dry, situational, and often rooted in the absurdity of navigating in a world determined to misunderstand it. Awkward encounters, deadpan reactions, and moments of self-aware irony cut through the intensity, offering relief without undercutting the film’s sincerity. These laughs feel earned, human, and deeply queer, born from recognition rather than mockery.
By the time Pillion reaches its final moments, it’s clear that this is not a film about kink alone, but about the courage it takes to be known. It’s about the contracts we write – spoken and unspoken – with the people we love, and the inherent risk in honoring them. Anchored by an excellent Alexander Skarsgård and a truly remarkable Harry Melling, Pillion stands as a bold, compassionate, and surprisingly accessible exploration of human connection. It challenges, disarms, and ultimately affirms, proving that even the most unconventional love stories often reveal the most universal truths.