In Australian-born Adrian Chiarella’s impressively realized, near-flawless feature-length debut, Leviticus, love, let alone desire, between two teens, Naim (Joe Bird) and Ryan (Stacy Clausen), makes them not just outsiders in the small, sleepy, Christian town in Australia they call home, but it also places them in direct danger. It’s not just the typical (or stereotypical) homophobes, but conversion therapy that turns on a supernatural curse.
Once done, the supernatural curse can’t be undone. What can’t be done poses an existential threat to Naim and Ryan. The said curse conjures a demonic presence, one visible only to Naim or Ryan. Even worse, the curse manifests itself in what both Naim and Ryan desire the most, each other. And when “it” appears, it turns its spectral mind to murder. Only staying physically apart and remaining within sight of others can temporarily postpone the curse’s deadliest side effect.
Leviticus opens with Naim, newly arrived with his mother (Mia Wasikowska), enjoying his first hang with Ryan at an abandoned factory near the edge of town. Roughhousing typical of preteen and teen boys almost immediately leads to something more, an open acknowledgment of Naim’s queerness and a recognition that Ryan shares Naim’s desire.
But in a quietly conservative town centered on an evangelical Christian church, Naim, Ryan, and Hunter (Jeremy Blewitt), the pastor’s son, living out and proud, leads to the aforementioned conversion therapy. First, Ryan and Hunter, followed by Naim, find themselves in the presence of a so-called “deliverance healer.” One by one, the boys fall to the ground, groaning in physical pain and emotional anguish.
The “cure,” of course, proves far worse than the “sin” of queer love and desire. Each, in turn, becomes marked by a parasitic presence. Subversive thoughts of queer desire awaken the parasitic demon from dormancy. For their desire, they’re beaten, strangled, and otherwise pummeled. Whether they live or die seemingly doesn't matter to their parents, siblings, or other members of the community (“better dead than queer,” apparently).
In the town’s limited imagination, queer desire isn’t just socially transgressive, but a disease or illness that must be excised from the community, even at the cost of Naim or Ryan’s lives, leading to a series of escalating attacks on the boys whenever they find themselves alone, Ryan at a skate park, Hunter at a fast-food restaurant, Naim alone at home. Nowhere is safe, except maybe in each other’s presence. Even then, the shape-changing nature of the parasitic being makes that almost impossible.
Leviticus benefits majorly from its frontline performances, including a sweetly sensitive, vulnerable performance from Joe Bird, a standout in 2022’s Talk To Me, and a more extroverted turn from Clausen as the subject of Naim’s desire (and vice versa), Mia Wasikowska as Naim’s earnest, well-intentioned, if blinkered, mother and Leviticus's accidental villain (one among several). The supporting players respectably fill out their preassigned roles with nary a misstep or ill-timed line delivery.
Directed with commendable straightforwardness and simplicity by Adrian Chiarella, Leviticus initially unfolds with an emphasis on Naim and Ryan’s everyday lives (school, home, church) before introducing the supernatural curse and following its increasingly violent and gory attacks. Expertly ratcheting up the tension from the first ambiguous scene set inside a poolside through the supernatural ritual//conversion therapy (and beyond), Leviticus turns homophobia, bigotry, and hatred into something frighteningly literal.
As metaphor, Leviticus takes It Follows’ subtext (sexually transmitted disease, among others) and replaces it with queer desire, reactionary social/political elements, and AIDS/HIV (an actual death sentence for far too many). Brilliant in its conception and even more brilliant in its execution, Leviticus belongs high on a list of queer horror and its discontents.
Leviticus premiered at the 2026 Sundance Film Festival.