Two men. One hotel room. A decade of silence. Honestly, if you haven’t seen the 2016 film The Pass, you’re missing out on one of the most claustrophobic, intense, and frankly heartbreaking examinations of masculinity ever put to screen. It’s not just a "soccer movie." In fact, there is almost no football in it at all.
Instead, The Pass traps us in three different hotel rooms over the span of ten years. It starts in Romania, the night before a massive Champions League game. Jason (played by a lean, electric Russell Tovey) and Ade (Arinze Kene) are nineteen-year-old teammates. They’re caffeinated, nervous, and vibrating with that specific brand of "lad" energy that defines elite sports. Then, a kiss happens. It’s a moment that should be a beginning, but because of the world they live in, it becomes the catalyst for a slow-motion car crash of a life.
Why The Pass (2016) feels more like a thriller than a drama
Most sports movies are about the big win. They’re about the trophy. This movie is about the cost of the trophy. Directed by Ben A. Williams and adapted from John Donnelly’s stage play, the film never hides its theatrical roots. Some people might find the "three-act, three-room" structure a bit stagey, but I think that’s exactly why it works. It creates this immense pressure. You can’t look away.
Jason, the protagonist, is a fascinatingly unlikeable guy. He chooses fame. He chooses the "brand." To survive in the hyper-masculine, often homophobic world of top-tier English football, he constructs a persona that is increasingly brittle and toxic. Russell Tovey is incredible here. You’ve seen him in Being Human or Years and Years, but this is probably his best work. He captures that desperate, frantic need to be "normal" while clearly rotting from the inside.
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Ade, on the other hand, takes a different path. He doesn't make it to the big leagues. While Jason is out there becoming a household name and a tabloid fixture, Ade is living a real life. The contrast when they meet up again five years later—and then five years after that—is jarring.
The reality of "The Secret" in professional sports
We have to talk about the context. When The Pass came out in 2016, the conversation around gay players in the Premier League was basically a wall of silence. Even now, in 2026, while progress has been made with players like Jake Blackwell or Josh Cavallo coming out globally, the "superstar" coming out remains a rarity.
The film tackles the "public image" problem head-on. In the second act, Jason is trying to manage a potential scandal. He’s with a girl (Nico Mirallegro) who is essentially being used as a prop for his heterosexuality. It’s gritty. It’s uncomfortable to watch because it feels so real. The dialogue isn't polished like a Sorkin script; it’s messy and defensive.
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- The First Room: Innocence and the mistake of honesty.
- The Second Room: Paranoia and the architecture of the "closet."
- The Third Room: The realization that you can’t buy back your soul.
There’s a specific scene involving a video leak that perfectly encapsulates the fear athletes feel. It’s not just about losing fans; it’s about losing the multi-million dollar contracts, the sponsorships, and the respect of a locker room that thrives on "banter" which often masks deep-seated prejudice.
Is it actually a "football" movie?
If you're looking for Goal! or Ted Lasso, you are in the wrong place. The Pass uses football as a setting, but it's really an interrogation of what we demand from our idols. We want them to be superhuman. We want them to be flawless archetypes of "manliness."
The film highlights how the sport strips these kids of their identity before they’re even old enough to vote. Jason and Ade are products of an academy system that prizes performance over personhood. By the time Jason realizes he’s traded his happiness for a career, he’s too far gone to know how to be anyone else. It’s a tragedy in the truest sense of the word.
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People often compare it to Weekend (2011) because of the intimate setting, but The Pass is much more aggressive. It’s about the violence of suppression. There’s a scene where Jason is working out in his hotel room—he’s shredded, successful, and looks like a god—but he’s utterly miserable. It’s a visual representation of the "perfection" the industry demands.
Breaking down the ending (No spoilers, but let’s be real)
Without giving away the final beats, the ending of The Pass doesn't give you a neat little bow. It shouldn't. Life for players in this position isn't a rom-com. The final confrontation between Jason and Ade is a masterclass in acting. Arinze Kene brings such a grounded, weary humanity to Ade that acts as the perfect foil to Tovey’s high-strung, manic Jason.
It asks a question that still resonates: What is the point of being the best in the world if you have to delete yourself to get there?
Actionable insights for viewers and fans
If you are planning to watch The Pass or if you've just finished it and are reeling from that final shot, here is how to actually process what this film is telling us:
- Watch the performance evolution: Pay close attention to Russell Tovey’s physical transformation between the three acts. His posture, the way he holds his jaw, and even his voice change as the character becomes more "successful" and more broken.
- Research the "Justin Fashanu" legacy: To understand the weight behind this film, look into the story of Justin Fashanu, the first top-flight English footballer to come out. The parallels between reality and the fears expressed in The Pass are haunting.
- Contrast with modern sports media: Watch the film and then look at a modern Premier League press conference. Notice the canned responses and the "media training." The Pass shows you exactly what happens when that training becomes a person's entire personality.
- Check out the original play: If you can find the script by John Donnelly, read it. Seeing how the dialogue translates from the stage to the screen shows just how much work Williams did to make a "small" movie feel cinematic.
The Pass is a tough watch, but it’s an essential one. It strips away the glamour of the beautiful game to show the ugly machinery underneath. It’s a reminder that while we cheer for the goals, the people scoring them are often playing a much more dangerous game behind closed doors.