PILLION (Movie Review)

I went to the movie theatre not knowing much. Something about gays in leather. Something starring easy-on-the-eyes Alexander Skarskgård. I didn’t even know what “pillion” meant. Turns out it’s the place where a passenger sits on a motorcycle, but it seems the movie draws much more from that back-seat position. Pillion portrays two gay men, one dominant, one submissive who meet for sex in an alley and then carry on a rigidly defined relationship that comes off as one prolonged role-play.

 

I will admit that I didn’t know what to think of the movie after seeing it. Just like the TV series Heated Rivalry, the film includes a lot of nudity and simulated sex…though even more graphic. (Apparently, it’s a prosthetic penis that is used in a couple of scenes.) I’d like to say I’m not a prude. In my head, I tried to view the movie’s nudity as giving equal time to the male body after seeing extensive female nudity in such films as Best Picture Oscar winner Anora. But, really, who am I kidding. I am a prude. If people want to see aroused penises, whether fake or real, there’s plenty of porn out there. I don’t need or want it when I go to the movie theatre. (I would say the same about female nudity.) 

 

I try to give myself a reality check, knowing there is technically a difference between gratuitous sex and that which may be more integral to the plot. With this point of view, the nudity in Pillion can be justified. The sexual roles are a major part of how Ray the dom (Skarsgård) and Colin the sub (Harry Melling) interact. I’ve heard about these relationships and I’ve seen some elements of dom-sub role playing in gay clubs and at gay events. 

 

In truth, Pillion may have shocked me more with its nonsexual scenes. Ray and Colin take their roles as defining their entire relationship. Things go far beyond Colin taking a back seat on Ray’s motorcycle. Colin, an admittedly bad cook, must prepare Ray’s meals. He initially must relinquish any right to sit beside Ray on the sofa since that is Ray’s dog’s spot. The sleeping arrangements are especially odd and, for me at least, disturbing. There seems to be a fine line between dom-sub interplay and humiliation. 

 

At many points, people in the audience laughed, which I took as them partly seeing humor in the characters’ interactions and partly out of their own discomfort. To someone who does not ascribe to dominant-submissive roles, the exchanges can come off as absurd. Who would want to be THAT submissive? 

 

It’s Colin’s mother, well played by Lesley Sharp, who is most concerned about Ray’s behaviour and her son’s association with him. Is she unsupportive, rational or both? While I don’t know anyone who is open about being in a dominant-submissive relationship, Colin seems like a perfect candidate to be submissive. He’s a thirty-something guy who lives at home, sings in a quartet with his dad and spends his days slapping parking tickets on people’s windshields. Perhaps I’m judgy, but he seems underdeveloped as a person. His meekness comes off when Ray picks him up at his parents’ house as he allows his parents to engage in the kind of awkward, prolonged meet-and-greet one might expect of a sixteen-year-old’s parents seeing their child off on a first date. Colin just lets them have their way, never seeming embarrassed or horrified by their intrusiveness. While some dom-sub relationships may be relatively normal, Colin looks like he could use some therapy. 

 

As the movie progresses, Colin does find more of a voice, still enjoying his submissive role but wanting a day off each week. Ray’s response, rather than Colin’s request, takes the movie toward its conclusion. 

 

Writing about Pillion hasn’t helped me process the movie much more. I’m still on the fence regarding what to take from the film. I still feel ill-at-ease, as though I’ve peeped on something I shouldn’t have and as if I’m judging a relationship more than a movie. With the dynamics so foreign to me, it’s hard to separate the two. When my partner, Evan, asked how I’d rate the film, I gave it a B…something relatively well done; just not so well-received, if that makes sense. 

 

On a second viewing, I’m sure I would more genuinely laugh. I might see the romance that is portrayed. As I Googled reactions to the film, I saw it described as a rom-com and perhaps a more accurate characterization as a “dom-com.” Still, I don’t think I’ll get to a second viewing. Maybe I’d become more enlightened. I’m just not sure I have a need for that.

  

THE SPORTS CLOSET

In my mind, I see a large closet—let’s make it a walk-in—filled with tennis rackets, footballs, basketballs, soccer balls and hockey sticks. It’s also crammed with male pro athletes who use this equipment. Where are all the gay role models in professional sports?

 

In the wake of the immensely popular Crave/HBO series Heated Rivalry in which actors played three hockey players dealing with gayness and/or bisexuality, no active pro athletes have stepped out of the closet. There is no evidence of gay tennis[1], football, basketball, soccer or hockey players. In the past, all we’ve had is NFL draftee Michael Sam, NFL player Carl Nassib and NBA player Jason Collins who were out. These players did not lead to the closet door becoming unhinged. The door remains firmly shut. 

 

Checking the forty-nine openly queer athletes at the 2026 Winter Olympics, only ten are male and the majority of them are figure skaters, a sport seemingly without a closet. (The other queer male Olympians are a curler, a speed skater and a couple of skiers.) 

 

When will it feel safe for pros currently playing in major sports to come out? It is true that gay progress has taken a hit under the current Trump administration. (See last week’s removal of Pride flags from the Stonewall Inn, declared a national monument during Obama’s presidency and state actions to remove rainbow crosswalks as well as seemingly everything regarding trans rights.) Still, marriage equality has been on the books for more than a decade. It’s unlikely there will be a perfect time in the foreseeable future for an active athlete to come out. If not now, when? I know the inner turmoil I felt while I remained a plain old, closeted college student and teacher. I can’t imagine staying in the closet throughout my twenties and beyond. 

 

Earlier this month, in the article, “What HBO’s Surprise Hit Gets Right About Men’s Locker Room Culture,” The New York Times cited a 2023 survey of 1,000 LGBTQ high school and college athletes in which 95% of the respondents described teammates’ reactions to their being out as ranging from “neutral” to “perfect.” This should be encouraging although I’d like to know the gender breakdown of respondents. Women are more inclined to be out. As that same article explained, sports are more aligned to a “masculine identity” and, therefore, “just by playing a sport…some women find it less risky to be more open because they are already going against stereotypical femininity.”  By contrast, the stereotype for male athletes is being “hypermasculine,” “dominant” and “emotionally controlled” while gayness still comes with a “more feminine” perception.

 

Unfortunately, neither Michael Sam nor Jason Collins nor Heated Rivalry has inspired and guided other male athletes in stepping out of the closet. The NYT article quotes Bill Kenney, an out NBA referee, saying, “[T]he needle hasn’t moved. The needle hasn’t moved because nobody else has done it” in terms of coming out. 

 

It’s possible some players have come out to their teammates without making an announcement to the wider public. I get that. Telling teammates has the potential for building camaraderie and being authentic to one’s day-to-day contacts. Perhaps their reaction is as much scrutiny as a player wants instead of waving the Pride flag at a press conference or making a statement on Instagram. If this is happening, it’s progress for the individual and his team. Not everyone wants to be a torchbearer. But with no one carrying the torch, other athletes, both professional and amateur, both younger and older, remain left without current role models. Fans too remain tied to the hypermasculine narrative for elite athletes.  

 

Will it take another generation or just a different administration before more professional athletes remove the closet door and step out? At this point, there are no balls or pucks in play. It’s all speculation.

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[1] Okay. There’s one gay tennis player, Joâo Lucas Reis de Silva, though he is hardly a household name. He is currently ranked 207 in the world. This means he cannot play the Grand Slams (the Australian Open, the French Open, Wimbledon or the U.S. Open) without successfully going through three rounds of qualification. He lost in the first round of qualification in January’s Australian Open qualification draw. To my knowledge, he has never played in the main draw of a Grand Slam.  

SKIPPING THE SUPER BOWL

I didn’t watch the Super Bowl. It’s the day after and I have no regrets. Didn’t see the commercials. Missed Bad Bunny. Definitely didn’t check out Kid Rock.

 

I skipped it all and I feel amazing. Or, I feel my normal self, at least. 

 

I haven’t watched the Super Bowl since at least 1986. That’s right. Four decades. It’s not much of a statement to skip the Super Bowl when I live in Vancouver, Canada. Stating the obvious, the Super Bowl is very American. As described in yesterday’s New York Times, it’s “that most red-white-and-blue of cultural moments.” Canadians aren’t so big on American moments right now. Canadians have their own football league, not that I care much about that either.

 

So, yeah, watching football is only slightly more interesting to me than golf. Okay, no, it’s considerably better than watching golf. But isn’t everything?

 

Back in the ’80s, I lived in Texas. At the time, it was treasonous not to cheer for the Dallas Cowboys. (I taught only minutes away from the stadium.) Mostly, I skipped watching their games, too. In fact, I timed Sunday grocery shopping for when the Cowboys were on TV. It meant the aisles were clear and there was no line at the checkout. Well played, I’d tell myself. Well played.

 

I realize I sound like a gay cliché, not watching football. But my relationship with the sport is more complicated than that. I will watch bits of college football games. I like the fast play, the marching bands, the cheering traditions, the students in the stands wearing their school colours. During my first three years attending TCU—“Go Frogs!”—in Fort Worth, Texas, I attended thirty-two out of thirty-three games, home and away. I travelled to Kansas, Arkansas, Alabama and Tennessee as well as all over Texas. I’ve gone to several bowl games featuring my team. I even paid $1,000 for a ticket to the Rose Bowl on January 1, 2011. Including the parade, it was worth it as a lifetime memory. (We won!) And, yes, I do expect to go to another TCU game someday…just not for a thousand bucks.

 

So watching some kind of football is considerably better than watching golf.

 

If I were going to watch a Super Bowl, yesterday’s might have been the one. Go, Seahawks. I like the city of Seattle a lot. I know I could live there if an opportunity or need arose. I’m happy for the city that its team finally won its first Super Bowl. I’m happy they get to have a parade. (That’s what happens, isn’t it? Isn’t that what they’re vying for…which city gets to calendar an extra parade? I did say I like marching bands. (Parades without roses, not so much.))

 

Pre-1987, I went to several Super Bowl parties. There were always two groups in attendance: (1) the sit-on-the-edge-of-the-sofa dudes who screamed at the television screen and high-fived each other as if they’d actually been on the field and helped make that touchdown happen, and (2) the rest of us who sat around, the screen barely in view, chatting about work, (non) dating, the latest movies and wondering if Brad would go berserk if any of us said his facepainting was “nice makeup.” Occasionally, the two groups would connect at the food table, stocking up on Doritos with bean dip and a surprisingly awesome cheese dip made from Velveeta and a can of Ro-Tel tomatoes. For the most part though, it was two separate parties in one household. 

 

I decided to stop watching NFL football in the fall of 1987. That’s when the players went on strike. Yes, they wanted more pay. Greed, I told myself. While $3.2 million is currently the average salary, in 1987, players earned an average of somewhere between $212,000 and $230,000…still A LOT of money back in the good old days before we knew anything about CTE. 

 

I was offended that obscenely paid football players wanted more. (Yes, I’m sure the team owners were making even more obscene amounts but the divide between the 1% and everyone else has always been outrageous.) All I knew was that I was working my butt off in a noble profession as a special education teacher and, with my own pay raise, I was making $14,000 per year….not a lot of money back then. These striking football players were making FIFTEEN TIMES more money than me. Something told me that this was f#@ked up. I turned my back on the NFL and have never regretted it. 

 

I don’t even watch the halftime shows. Sorry, Madonna. (See, I’m not a total gay cliché.)

 

I’ve never had a fear of missing out. If there’s a wardrobe malfunction, I’ll read about it the next day. If there’s an epic commercial—come on folks, watching commercials shouldn’t be a highlight—I can try to catch it on YouTube although it may not play in my region since I don’t live in the United States.

 

And speaking of the U.S., I’m more than tired about how everything gets politicized there, so much so that there were competing halftime shows. Good god, let Bad Bunny say or do something about immigration and, if you don’t like it, go double dip your Dorito in that Velveeta dip. Choosing to not watch something is easy, folks. I’ve been not watching for four decades.

 

I like having my Sunday afternoons free. (It gives me more time to read Sunday’s New York Times.) I like having Monday nights clear as well as whenever the NFL schedules other televised games…Thursdays? Saturdays? Really, I don’t care enough to look it up. 

 

So another Super Bowl come and gone. Hoopla over. Except for that parade. Time to move on to more important things like whether I should watch Hamnet before the Oscars. I’m not feeling it, but I’m sure it too is better than golf…and that Melania flick. 

THE SWEDISH GAZE

Life changes when you’re in a relationship that’s working. For the second time since partnered with Evan, I went on a solo European trip. I have the luxury of time, a love for Northern Europe and the privilege of being able to afford to go. (I’ve been consciously avoiding looking at my credit card expenditures and the conversion of European currency to Canadian dollars.) Besides, Evan has travelled Europe extensively and has said he doesn’t ever need to see another castle. I get it. But I’m not castled out yet.

 

This trip was my first time in Norway—Oslo and the SPECTACULAR Lofoten Islands. (Google Image them. Seriously.) But the start of my European adventure was my home base—or what I’ve often wanted to call home: Stockholm. 

 

Oh, how I love the city! I’ve said it over and over but the place wholly suits me. I no longer feel like a tourist there. When I visit, I just live my daily life in local parks and cafés, hopping back and forth between favourite districts. 

 

Swedish actor Alexander
Skarsgård sporting The
Swedish Haircut

I will admit that Swedish men were once part of the draw as well. So well-groomed in a classically conservative manner. I’m partial to blonds and so many men wear their hair parted on one side that, a number of years ago, I went into a Stockholm salon and asked the stylist, “Please give me a Swedish haircut.” 

 

She didn’t know what I was talking about. Still, she gave me her best effort at what I described. My stylist in Vancouver knows all about The Swedish Haircut as we call it. She does it well. (I can’t wait for my next appointment this week.)

 

On this trip, I didn’t pay much attention to the men. I think that comes with being in a secure relationship. The urge to look just isn’t there. I had to push myself to be more conscious of men’s fashion and, yes, hairstyles. Perhaps because I wasn’t consistently looking, I saw neither a consistent manner of dressing nor wearing men’s hair. 

 

Where’d The Swedish Haircut go? If anything, the men I did notice were not as neatly groomed. Sure, there was light snow on many of the days during my visit; perhaps that made guys dress more for weather than style. (Evan would say it’s not an either/or predicament.) I suppose more men had hats on as well, hairstyles covered up. I only wore my toque one day—not in Sweden, but on the Lofoten Islands when the wind chill factor demanded I cover my ears. Overall, I’m not a hat wearer. There’s vanity—I don’t think they look good on me—and then there’s the discomfort: hats make my hair itchy. Is it just me? Are my follicles more inclined to itchiness? Of course, there’s also “hat hair,” the disastrous reveal when I take my hat off. I really, really need a haircut.

 

There was something even more calming about this trip since I wasn’t focusing my gaze on gays. With Evan as my partner, even the desire to look was just not there. Instead, I spent my time looking at pretty, old buildings—yes, a couple of castles—taking in overall street scenes and scoping out previously undiscovered cafés that might become a new writing spot. (Really, I think I stuck to all my familiar ones. So comfortable, so cozy, so easy to just dive into the writing.)

 

I’m back in Vancouver now. I only bought one basic shirt. (Despite not looking, my gut said I needed to be gentler on my credit card.) I have no new tweak to The Swedish Haircut. I just have hundreds of photos and nice memories. A wonderful trip, no gaze required.