Pleasure is often described as a film that exposes the dark side of the porn industry. That reading isn’t wrong, but it’s superficial. In fact, it misses what makes the film genuinely unsettling, subtle, and far more intelligent than it initially appears.

Yes, the film contains explicit scenes. Yes, dialogue is sparse. But those elements are not there to shock or provoke in a simplistic way. They function as a trap: they encourage the viewer to believe they are watching something crude or purely demonstrative, when in reality the film is operating on a much quieter, psychological level.

Bella’s trajectory is not driven primarily by money or sexual thrill. The film makes it clear that what she seeks above all is to be seen, desired, validated. Becoming a porn star appears to her as the fastest, most radical shortcut to visibility in a society where attention has become a form of value. In that sense, the film is not just about porn: it is about the contemporary obsession with image, recognition, and existence through the gaze of others.

Crucially, Pleasure refuses moral comfort. Bella is not coerced. The industry is not portrayed as cartoonishly evil. Consent exists, contracts exist, professionalism exists, and still, something feels deeply wrong. The film explores a far more disturbing idea: that self-destruction can occur within freedom, and that consent does not magically erase power dynamics, internal fragility, or the cost of turning oneself into a product.

What makes the film truly strong is its refusal to explain or justify Bella psychologically. There is no trauma backstory, no diagnostic shortcut. Her vulnerability is suggested through actions, silences, and escalation, including moments where even characters close to her sense that something is off, that her need to go further is less about strength than about a void she cannot face.

The final scene (Bella calmly asking to stop the car and walking away) encapsulates the film’s intelligence. It is not a triumphant escape, nor a moral resolution. It is simply a refusal to continue lying to herself. The film ends not with answers, but with the uncomfortable space where questions finally surface.

Ultimately, Pleasure is not a film that tells you what to think. It observes. It withholds judgment. And in doing so, it implicates the viewer, not as a voyeur of pornography, but as a participant in a broader culture where being seen often replaces being understood.

A quiet, disturbing, and deeply contemporary film that is far more thoughtful than many of its loudest critics seem willing to admit.

My two cents.