Sequins, Scandal, and Skarsgård: "Pillion" Dominates British Indie Awards

Olivia Bennett, 12/1/2025"Pillion," a bold queer biker romance, steals the show at the British Independent Film Awards, winning four awards including Best British Independent Film. The event spotlights daring narratives and revolutionary costumes, celebrating the unpredictability and vibrant spirit of British indie cinema.

Because "Pillion," a queer biker romance with a penchant for handcuffs and heartache, thundered past the finish line (and propriety) with four sparkling gongs, including the most-coveted of them all: Best British Independent Film. Frankly, one might be forgiven for whispering, “Only in Britain,” and meaning it—since "Pillion," with its audacious backbone and unapologetic leather, is the sort of movie that’s allergic to predictability and treats convention as barely a speed bump.

Few could miss the sight of Celia Imrie—British screen royalty, with a stare known to silence even the rowdiest post-pub cast party—handing the top trophy to the beaming crew. At center stage, Alexander Skarsgård cut a rakish, dangerous figure, all trimmed beard and biker boots, while Harry Melling stood by, quietly smoldering—a study in contradiction beside his brash co-star. Their chemistry? Late-night jazz and rainy asphalt. Nothing fake about it.

Director and writer Harry Lighton seemed to glide rather than walk to the podium, his double victory glinting: Best Debut Screenwriter plus the lived magnificence of seeing his fiercely personal vision celebrated on hallowed boards. There’s a particular joy when a film like this—the sort parents frown at and critics secretly love—emerges not with a polite round of applause, but a standing ovation.

It's worth pausing on what most audiences never quite notice: the true fabric of a film is often, well, actual fabric. Grace Snell’s win for Best Costume Design was more than decorative—it was revolutionary, really. Outfits in "Pillion" didn’t merely clothe actors; they wrote desire onto skin, turned every zipper and snap into Chekhov’s proverbial gun. Meanwhile, Diandra Ferreira’s work in Make Up & Hair Design? Less finishing touch, more sly narrative. Consider a bruised eyelid, a stray curl, and you’re halfway to knowing a character’s secret before the first line lands. Who says sequins and leather can’t bear the burdens of storytelling?

Yet the night’s rhythm shifted abruptly, as so many of these ceremonies do, when A24’s sparkling troop strutted up for Best Ensemble. Poulter, Quinn, Connor, and Melton—names that currently seem to haunt every casting agent’s dreams—claimed the honor for "Warfare." Their combined youth had the kind of gossamer effortlessness that can make any grizzled producer feel simultaneously hopeful and ancient. Add technical awards for sound, editing, effects—well, at times it almost seemed like "Warfare" was assembling its own mechanical sweep, as much a flex as any performance. What did their mothers say before they left for another awards night, one wonders?

"The Ballad of Wallis Island" wheeled in like a slightly offbeat cousin at the family fête, racking up screenplay and joint lead performance. In lesser hands, a story of faded folk musicians and tragicomic reunions could’ve fallen flat, but Basden and Key wrangled something delightfully eccentric and, oddly enough, emotionally true—a distant cousin to those legendary ‘90s comedies that still play on Channel 4 reruns. Nostalgia, but not the cheap kind.

High hopes can be treacherous territory. "My Father’s Shadow," already pegged as an international Oscar hopeful, found a quieter sort of triumph with Akinola Davies Jr’s Best Director nod. Sometimes buzz takes on a life of its own, only to lose momentum on a damp London night. Elsewhere, Neon’s "Sentimental Value" quietly annexed Best International Independent Film—a third consecutive win for the brand, if you’re keeping score. Patterns emerge, of course, and lately, the Euro mood—melancholy, a whiff of existential dread—remains in no hurry to depart the cinematic stage. Aren’t we all just a little bit sentimental these days?

Briefly, the evening inhaled, granting a reverent pause for the Special Jury Prize—Warp Films taking the honor, lauded for never flinching from the rough or the real. A library of films that defined the gritty, bruised glory of 21st-century British cinema, with "Dead Man’s Shoes" and "This Is England" cited not as trophies, but as milestones. It’s easy, year after year, to lose sight of the fact that these stories shape the DNA of an entire industry—keeping the blood hot, the pulse unpredictable.

A curious, almost whimsical aside—The Magic Lantern Cinema in Tywyn (Wales, not London) received the first-ever Cinema of the Year salute. A subtle reminder, really, that indie film’s lifeblood flows far from the multiplexes, through hidden sanctuaries where battered projectors still rattle and community means more than box office buzz.

So, what’s the takeaway from this glitter-and-guts affair? British indie film—restless, perverse, occasionally scandalous—flourishes on its own daring. A film like "Pillion" doesn’t so much ask for acceptance as dare the establishment to look away first. Sequins and biker jackets, eyeliner and bruises—every shiny surface here disguises something deeper, braver. That’s the trick, isn’t it? To build a world out of improbable stories, risky visions, and the odd, subversive delight. Come to think of it, isn’t risk itself the main tradition at these awards?

With nights like this, the message is as clear as a freshly polished trophy: British cinema has never been content to follow. It prefers, always, to swerve into the unknown.

The Roundhouse, that hallowed ground of indie London—half cathedral, half circus—throbbed with a certain electric suspense this time around. Lights cascaded over clusters of stylists, auteurs, publicists, and hopefuls, the air thick with the scent of hair spray and unspoken ambition. If there’s anything to know about the British Independent Film Awards, it’s that the evening often pivots from mere pageantry to outright provocation. On this particular night in 2025, anyone expecting the usual suspects to sweep must’ve left a touch dizzy—maybe even dazed.Because "Pillion," a queer biker romance with a penchant for handcuffs and heartache, thundered past the finish line (and propriety) with four sparkling gongs, including the most-coveted of them all: Best British Independent Film. Frankly, one might be forgiven for whispering, “Only in Britain,” and meaning it—since "Pillion," with its audacious backbone and unapologetic leather, is the sort of movie that’s allergic to predictability and treats convention as barely a speed bump.Few could miss the sight of Celia Imrie—British screen royalty, with a stare known to silence even the rowdiest post-pub cast party—handing the top trophy to the beaming crew. At center stage, Alexander Skarsgård cut a rakish, dangerous figure, all trimmed beard and biker boots, while Harry Melling stood by, quietly smoldering—a study in contradiction beside his brash co-star. Their chemistry? Late-night jazz and rainy asphalt. Nothing fake about it.Director and writer Harry Lighton seemed to glide rather than walk to the podium, his double victory glinting: Best Debut Screenwriter plus the lived magnificence of seeing his fiercely personal vision celebrated on hallowed boards. There’s a particular joy when a film like this—the sort parents frown at and critics secretly love—emerges not with a polite round of applause, but a standing ovation.It's worth pausing on what most audiences never quite notice: the true fabric of a film is often, well, actual fabric. Grace Snell’s win for Best Costume Design was more than decorative—it was revolutionary, really. Outfits in "Pillion" didn’t merely clothe actors; they wrote desire onto skin, turned every zipper and snap into Chekhov’s proverbial gun. Meanwhile, Diandra Ferreira’s work in Make Up & Hair Design? Less finishing touch, more sly narrative. Consider a bruised eyelid, a stray curl, and you’re halfway to knowing a character’s secret before the first line lands. Who says sequins and leather can’t bear the burdens of storytelling?Yet the night’s rhythm shifted abruptly, as so many of these ceremonies do, when A24’s sparkling troop strutted up for Best Ensemble. Poulter, Quinn, Connor, and Melton—names that currently seem to haunt every casting agent’s dreams—claimed the honor for "Warfare." Their combined youth had the kind of gossamer effortlessness that can make any grizzled producer feel simultaneously hopeful and ancient. Add technical awards for sound, editing, effects—well, at times it almost seemed like "Warfare" was assembling its own mechanical sweep, as much a flex as any performance. What did their mothers say before they left for another awards night, one wonders?"The Ballad of Wallis Island" wheeled in like a slightly offbeat cousin at the family fête, racking up screenplay and joint lead performance. In lesser hands, a story of faded folk musicians and tragicomic reunions could’ve fallen flat, but Basden and Key wrangled something delightfully eccentric and, oddly enough, emotionally true—a distant cousin to those legendary ‘90s comedies that still play on Channel 4 reruns. Nostalgia, but not the cheap kind.High hopes can be treacherous territory. "My Father’s Shadow," already pegged as an international Oscar hopeful, found a quieter sort of triumph with Akinola Davies Jr’s Best Director nod. Sometimes buzz takes on a life of its own, only to lose momentum on a damp London night. Elsewhere, Neon’s "Sentimental Value" quietly annexed Best International Independent Film—a third consecutive win for the brand, if you’re keeping score. Patterns emerge, of course, and lately, the Euro mood—melancholy, a whiff of existential dread—remains in no hurry to depart the cinematic stage. Aren’t we all just a little bit sentimental these days?Briefly, the evening inhaled, granting a reverent pause for the Special Jury Prize—Warp Films taking the honor, lauded for never flinching from the rough or the real. A library of films that defined the gritty, bruised glory of 21st-century British cinema, with "Dead Man’s Shoes" and "This Is England" cited not as trophies, but as milestones. It’s easy, year after year, to lose sight of the fact that these stories shape the DNA of an entire industry—keeping the blood hot, the pulse unpredictable.A curious, almost whimsical aside—The Magic Lantern Cinema in Tywyn (Wales, not London) received the first-ever Cinema of the Year salute. A subtle reminder, really, that indie film’s lifeblood flows far from the multiplexes, through hidden sanctuaries where battered projectors still rattle and community means more than box office buzz.So, what’s the takeaway from this glitter-and-guts affair? British indie film—restless, perverse, occasionally scandalous—flourishes on its own daring. A film like "Pillion" doesn’t so much ask for acceptance as dare the establishment to look away first. Sequins and biker jackets, eyeliner and bruises—every shiny surface here disguises something deeper, braver. That’s the trick, isn’t it? To build a world out of improbable stories, risky visions, and the odd, subversive delight. Come to think of it, isn’t risk itself the main tradition at these awards?With nights like this, the message is as clear as a freshly polished trophy: British cinema has never been content to follow. It prefers, always, to swerve into the unknown.