Expecting a romantic partner to fulfill all your emotional needs is impractical. But what counts as a realistic portion—for you, me, or anyone? There’s no correct answer, yet director Harry Lighton playfully explores the options in his casually charming romance Pillion. The film is subtly tender: it examines, without judgment, what people desire, in the bedroom or beyond, but are often hesitant to request. It also acknowledges that we don’t enter the world fully self-aware—and really, where would the excitement be in that? We learn through experience; there’s no alternative route.

Harry Melling plays Colin, a gentle spirit residing in the comfortably dull London suburb of Bromley with his supportive parents, who are fully aware he’s gay. His mother Peggy (Lesley Sharp), battling cancer, has even attempted to arrange blind dates with suitable men she thinks would match him. On Christmas Eve, while performing at a local pub with a charming barbershop quartet that includes his overly amiable father Pete (Douglas Hodge), Colin spots a motorcycle gang causing mild, polite chaos in a corner. Timidly, he observes one man in particular—a muscular heartthrob who brusquely cuts ahead at the bar before discreetly handing him a Christmas card with a time and location written inside. The following day, Colin’s family questions what kind of person schedules a rendezvous in a Primark parking lot on Christmas night. The answer: Alexander Skarsgård in a zippered leather racing suit. Who could possibly refuse?

Skarsgård’s Ray, a dominant, develops an interest in Colin, who remains unaware of his own submissive nature until their parking lot encounter. Both arrive with dogs in tow: Ray’s Rottweiler and Colin’s spirited long-haired dachshund—a clever and absurd visual joke that symbolizes how seemingly incompatible individuals can connect despite the odds. Ray puts Colin through a strength test, which he immediately fails. Then he unzips his leather bodysuit to offer Colin the central experience. Colin is completely smitten, and soon he’s cooking for Ray (who shows minimal gratitude), sleeping on the floor beside Ray’s bed rather than on it, and riding passenger on Ray’s motorcycle after shaving his head and wearing the custom leather outfit and heavy padlock collar Ray selected for him. Colin realizes he enjoys servitude and feels a form of love for Ray; as he tells a colleague, he’s discovered he “has a talent for devotion.”

Does Ray benefit Colin? That’s irrelevant, and not really Pillion‘s focus. (The movie is based on Adam Mars-Jones’ 2020 novel Box Hill.) Colin attempts to hide relationship details from his parents, but the protective, somewhat intrusive Peggy senses something off-putting about Ray; Pete, epitomizing calm acceptance, withholds opinion, apparently recognizing that only those within a relationship understand its reality. Indeed, Ray is deliberately not kind to Colin. He seldom smiles, though the wonderfully nuanced Skarsgård reveals how even this paragon of stoic, unexpressive manhood occasionally can’t suppress a glimmer of amusement. Moreover, Ray provides Colin something he never knew he required—though it proves to be suitable only temporarily.

Pillion explores self-discovery and delivers considerable humor. At one stage, Colin, Ray, and Ray’s biker crew venture into the wild for a camping excursion. The men, both submissives and dominants, shed their leather and rubber attire and dash to a swimming spot; exposing their soft, imperfect physiques, they dive into the water with youthful recklessness. Afterwards, one of the group offers Colin a lukewarm compliment about what a striking pair he and Ray make. (Essentially, Colin’s pleasant, average features only enhance the appeal of the flawlessly sculpted Ray.) But then he poses a serious query: Do they ever kiss? Upon hearing the response, he probes deeper, wondering if Colin longs for it. This marks the start of Colin’s awakening that he should be able to request what he desires, beyond merely satisfying others’ wishes.

It’s a straightforward notion, yet one that often requires considerable time to grasp. How does one locate a person who can compromise at least halfway, at the 50 percent level if not 70 or 80? Lighton discovers fluid responses to this inquiry through his cast’s expressions. Melling’s Colin initially glows with naivety, exuding thankfulness for finally discovering his “niche”—only to understand that discovery alone is insufficient. And when he ultimately asserts himself with his controlling lover, we glimpse something about Ray that remains unspoken; it’s merely a fleeting shadow crossing his face. This is Pillion‘s bittersweet elegance: it concerns all the things you believe you cannot request in a partnership, until you ultimately recognize that you can. It involves risk. Yet who claimed love and sex were safe, manageable experiences? Everything that renders them thrilling also renders them emotionally hazardous. Pillion implies that falling in love entails finally confronting the reality that you’re not merely a passenger.