Leviticus

In Leviticus, desire is neither a sin nor the source of evil. It is the argument used by a frightened community to justify cruelty. Australian writer-director Adrian Chiarella’s debut feature film opens with an ingenious contradiction: the person who makes your heart race might very well be the one who comes to kill you. Set in an isolated industrial town where power lines cut across the horizon and abandoned buildings offer the only haven of privacy available to young people, the film follows Naim—played with raw sensitivity by Joe Bird—after he moves to this town with his mother Arlene, portrayed by Mia Wasikowska. Arlene has found refuge within a strict evangelical congregation, hoping that faith will bring her some sense of order after a period of personal upheaval. Her son, however, finds another refuge with Ryan, a confident and athletic classmate played by Stacy Clausen.

Their first encounter inside an abandoned factory highlights the emotional intelligence hidden behind the film’s horror. What at first glance resembles a contest of adolescent machismo (lifting scrap metal, trading insults, and fighting on the dusty floor) gradually reveals itself to be a form of seduction. Violence becomes the language the boys have learned to use when tenderness seems too dangerous to express directly. A takedown becomes a pause, the pause becomes a kiss, and for a fleeting moment, the ruins surrounding them resemble a private kingdom. The scene is tender without veering into sentimentality, and imbued with a certain unease even before a supernatural event has occurred. The boys already understand that this discovery would have consequences; the monster merely gives physical form to a fear that has been with them for as long as they can remember.

This fragile romance takes a turn for the worse when Naim sees Ryan kissing Hunter, the pastor’s son, played by Jeremy Blewitt. Hurt and humiliated, Naim reports what he witnessed to the church, thereby making a disastrous decision whose consequences he cannot fully grasp. This prevents him from becoming an unblemished symbol of persecution: he briefly uses the very prejudice that threatens him as a weapon, believing he can direct it toward someone else without exposing himself. The church responds by bringing in a gaunt-faced deliverance healer (played with cadaverous severity by Nicholas Hope) who performs a public ceremony intended to purge the boys of their supposedly indecent desires. What begins as a slightly ridiculous religious spectacle turns terrifying as the victims are seized by convulsions, choke, and collapse. The congregation witnesses an act of abuse and hails it as salvation, while Pastor Rod, played by Ewen Leslie, hides his cruelty behind absolute moral certainty.

After the ritual, its victims are hunted by an entity that only they can see. It attacks when they are alone and takes the form of the person they desire most, which means that Naim sees Ryan while Ryan sees Naim. The comparison to It Follows is inevitable, and Leviticus at times seems almost too eager to invite it. Like David Robert Mitchell’s film, it uses a relentless supernatural pursuer to link sexual anxiety to mortality. Yet the distinctiveness of Adrian Chiarella’s take gives it an identity that transcends this obvious influence. The creature does not approach in the form of just any body; it takes on the voice, gestures, and beauty of the person its victim most wants to trust. Every reunion thus becomes an interrogation. A smile can be genuine comfort or a predatory imitation, while a kiss can confirm love or trigger violence.

This premise offers a remarkably direct portrayal of the psychological goal of conversion therapy. The monster cannot make desire disappear, because desire cannot be exorcised; instead, it corrupts the victim’s relationship with desire. Its most diabolical feat is to drive two boys to flee from the very person toward whom they instinctively want to turn. Once both Naim and Ryan have experienced the curse, the audience can no longer take the presence of either boy at face value. Adrian Chiarella repeatedly prolongs the interval between recognition and certainty, allowing a seemingly ordinary conversation to become unbearable as we scrutinize posture, tone, and eye contact in search of a flaw. A particularly tense encounter on a bus demonstrates just how little the director needs to unsettle us: proximity, desire, and a moment of physical contact are enough, for the film has taught us that affection itself can be a trap.

The film works more powerfully as a love story tinged with horror than as a conventional horror film with a touch of romance. Its most moving moment comes when Ryan suggests that if he must be pursued by a creature with the face of another person, he wants it to look like Naim. On paper, this statement might seem melodramatic; but when spoken by Stacy Clausen, it becomes a wounded expression of devotion. The nervous glances, the coded references to the factory, and the awkward attempts at reconciliation matter just as much as the carnage. Joe Bird and Stacy Clausen manage to create a convincing blend of attraction, resentment, guilt, and need, without ever turning their characters into idealized martyrs. Ryan can be reckless and unfaithful, while Naim can be jealous and vindictive. Their imperfections strengthen their relationship, as the film does not argue that queer love deserves protection only when it is exemplary. It deserves protection because it is human.

The city itself plays a part in the persecution. Director of photography Tyson Perkins focuses on weathered concrete, overcast skies, industrial smoke, and shots crisscrossed by fences, gates, and power lines, giving the impression that the landscape is capable of imprisoning its inhabitants without walls. Editor Nick Fenton sets the film’s pace with great economy, while Jed Kurzel’s score and Emma Bortignon’s sound design deepen the atmosphere through pounding percussion, metallic reverberations, and distant industrial noises. Not even daylight offers any protection. Yet certain weaknesses remain: the rules governing the entity aren’t always consistent, passersby accept obvious injuries with an implausibly passive attitude, and several lines of dialogue explain metaphors already effectively conveyed by the imagery. Arlene’s character is also frustrating due to her lack of depth, despite Mia Wasikowska’s strong performance. Her belief that harming her son could protect him from future homophobic violence makes her the very cruelty she claims to fear, but the film only briefly explores the grief and insecurity that led her toward fundamentalism.

What sets Leviticus apart is its refusal to confuse darkness with seriousness. There is bloodshed, but the film’s purpose is not merely to punish queer characters under the pretext of criticizing their persecution. Its deepest concern is solidarity and the possibility that isolation—rather than desire—is the condition that allows hatred to flourish. Adrian Chiarella finds hope without pretending that love can magically dissolve prejudice or erase trauma, leading to a bittersweet conclusion reinforced by a musical choice featuring Frank Ocean. “Leviticus” may lay out its allegory a bit too explicitly and borrow recognizable elements from earlier horror films, but its fusion of first love, religious abuse, and the terror of the doppelgänger is genuinely compelling. Carried by the vulnerable performances of Joe Bird and Stacy Clausen, it becomes a defense of queer intimacy that is both fierce and tender. The scariest monster isn’t the one with the face of someone you love; it’s the ideology that taught you to fear that face in the first place.

Leviticus
Written and directed by Adrian Chiarella
Produced by Samantha Jennings, Kristina Ceyton, Hannah Ngo
Starring Joe Bird, Stacy Clausen, Jeremy Blewitt, Mia Wasikowska
Cinematography : Tyson Perkins
Edited by Nick Fenton
Music by Jed Kurzel
Production company : Causeway Films
Distributed by NEON (United States), Originals Factory (France)
Release dates : 23 January 2026 (Sundance), June 19, 2026 (United States), October 7, 2026 (France)
Running time : 88 minutes

Viewed on July 31, 2026