Horror, social commentary, and a tender gay coming-of-age love story collide in Adrian Chiarella’s unnerving and deeply affecting feature debut, Leviticus.
The Australian feature stars Joe Bird (Talk to Me) as Naim, a shy, introverted teenager who has recently moved to a small, deeply religious town with his devout mother (Mia Wasikowska). There, he forms an unexpected connection with Ryan (Stacy Clausen), a local boy whose roughhousing companionship gradually gives way to something more intimate. Amid snake hunts, abandoned factories, and stolen moments away from watchful eyes, the two begin to recognize feelings neither is quite prepared to name.
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In a community where faith governs nearly every aspect of daily life, that discovery comes at a cost. After Ryan is caught in a compromising moment with the minister’s son (Jeremy Blewitt), the boys are subjected to a so-called deliverance ritual led by a charismatic preacher (Nicholas Hope) determined to purge them of their same-sex desires. What follows is far more disturbing than either expected. Soon strange and violent occurrences begin to unfold, leaving Naim questioning whether the ritual awakened something supernatural, psychological, or something far worse.
When Naim witnesses Ryan seemingly communicating with an unseen presence, he finds himself pulled into an escalating nightmare. Before long, he discovers the entity haunting Ryan has taken on a familiar form: his own. As reality becomes increasingly unstable, the boys are forced to confront not only the terror stalking them, but the fears, desires, and shame that have been imposed upon them by the world around them.
To reveal anything more would spoil the mystery and mounting dread that Chiarella so skillfully brings to life. While there are a handful of effective jump scares, Leviticus is far from a paint-by-numbers horror film. It is reaching for something deeper and succeeds on its own terms. Wisely, Chiarella never spells out his themes. Instead, he trusts the audience to wrestle with them. Yet it is impossible to miss the film’s central concern: two boys struggling to accept who they are while the world around them attempts to destroy that very part of themselves.
Naim and Ryan are not only discovering their sexuality, but they are also discovering love. The connection between them feels genuine and immediate, and as events spiral further out of control, the tension between longing and fear becomes almost unbearable. They desperately want to be together, but their own eyes may be deceiving them. Their desire for connection could just as easily lead them into the arms of something determined to destroy them.
In that sense, Leviticus is more than a horror film, though it excels at creating a suffocating sense of dread that seeps into nearly every frame. Much of that success rests on the shoulders of Bird and Clausen, who are both utterly believable and magnetic. Bird carries the film with a performance filled with yearning, vulnerability, terror, and heartbreak. Clausen, meanwhile, gives Ryan a lived-in authenticity. He convincingly portrays the tough, athletic persona Ryan presents to the world while revealing the tenderness and uncertainty beneath it. The protective walls Ryan has built have become part of his identity, even as he longs to tear them down. That internal conflict becomes especially powerful as Naim himself begins to fall victim to the preacher’s curse.
Wasikowska also delivers strong work as a mother whose own personal upheaval prevents her from recognizing the depth of her son’s suffering. To both her credit and Chiarella’s, the character is never given the easy redemption arc audiences may expect. She is a source of Naim’s pain, and she remains frustratingly blind to his needs. For many queer people, that reality will feel painfully familiar. There is no grand awakening waiting for her. No miraculous change of heart. That choice makes Naim and Ryan’s struggle all the more heartbreaking.
Credit must also be given to cinematographer Tyson Perkins, whose stunning imagery amplifies both the intimacy and terror of the story. His camera moves close during moments of romance and horror alike, while also emphasizing the town’s isolation. Jed Kurzel’s score is equally effective, employing a low, pulsating soundscape that underscores the unease lurking beneath nearly every scene.
While the film does end somewhat abruptly—and I do think it could have lost one particular shot, allowing audiences to leave the theater with even more uncertainty about what comes next—Leviticus remains a remarkable achievement in queer cinema.
It succeeds as a visceral, frightening horror film, but it also lingers as something far more thoughtful and emotionally resonant. These are kids we care about. We do not want to see them hurt. We understand their desperation, their isolation, and the constant fear that comes from simply trying to survive in a place that rejects who they are. That reality remains painfully relevant for many queer young people today, and Chiarella paints that picture with compassion, honesty, and an overwhelming sense of dread.
A day after seeing it, I still can’t quite shake Leviticus. The scares may linger, but it is the sadness, longing, and humanity at its core that continue to haunt me.
Leviticus opens in select theaters on June 19, 2026
