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“I want it to look like you,” resonates as the most romantic line exchanged between the two young men at the center of “Leviticus,” a tightly conceived, gripping queer horror that reaches for unassuming brilliance through a supernatural premise that’s as terrifying as it is thematically relevant. The statement implies that even if their fate is to be haunted, likely to death, by an entity that takes the form of the person they are most attracted to, they would choose for that malevolent force to personify each other. What is love if not a willingness to fight another person’s demons alongside them?
Titled after the book in the Bible that features what some devotees interpret as a condemnation of homosexuality, calling it an “abomination,” this outstanding debut from writer-director Adrian Chiarella organically marries blood-curling fright with incisive social commentary. He joins a large contingent of accomplished Australian genre filmmakers working today (Jennifer Kent and Danny and Michael Philippou among them).
Chiarella introduces his two main characters while they hang out inside an abandoned mill. The boys challenge each other to throw heavy objects, which leads to intense roughhousing. That early scene, at first, seems typical of two young male friends asserting their masculinity in a juvenile manner. But then, blonde-haired Ryan (Stacy Clausen) kisses Naim (Joe Bird) while pinning him down on the ground. Conscious that in their small and mostly desolate Australian town, where everyone knows everyone, life still revolves around Christianity, they agree to keep their newfound, mutual desire a secret.
Packed within that initial exchange is believably casual dialogue that conveys not only their inner concerns but also their relationship to their environment. Naim questions why Ryan acts so distant in school. The latter denies it, but his behavior responds to the fear of being ostracized if any suspicions were to arise. Around others, Ryan must keep up the performance of what’s expected of him. New in town after his emotionally stunted mother (Mia Wasikowska) chose to move them there, Naim is still making sense of this uninviting place. The dense fumes from nearby industrial facilities often float into the purview of cinematographer Tyson Perkins, a reminder of the harsh, isolated backdrop where the narrative unfurls. Visually, “Leviticus” reads like a social realist drama, which grounds even the most gruesome events under a veil of unnerving normalcy, as if they could happen anywhere.
Something sinister is set in motion when Naim discovers his intimate pal might have similar feelings for another boy, Hunter (Jeremy Blewitt), the local pastor’s son. When that relationship is brought to the adults’ attention, drastic action is taken. In front of the congregation, Ryan and Hunter meet with a “deliverance healer,” whose prayer, or spell, makes them convulse and contort to everyone’s shock —Naim’s in particular. The implication is that the righteous, homophobic “men of God” willingly invoke a demon to punish those whose sins they deem abhorrent. Chiarella is less concerned with the otherworldly mechanics, though they are clear enough, and instead focused on what it symbolizes. The entity they’ve been cursed with will morph itself into the object of their desire to test them, and if they surrender to lust, brutal violence will ensue.
The vicious paranormal entity is the embodiment of the self-hatred and shame certain religious groups impose on queer people, especially at a young age. Niam eventually receives the same spiritual “treatment,” and begins to see a fake version of Ryan following around. Bird’s pronounced eyes express Naim’s astonishment at the circumstances he’s found himself in, but also a genuine sadness and concern for Ryan. Both Clausen and Bird give cautiously tender performances laced with mounting dread and sorrow. Only being apart can they maybe remain safe. In Clausen’s case, the role is a dual one, since he must also play the version of Ryan who chases after Naim with the intend of causing him harm.
And yet, as disturbing as realizing that he’s being taunted by something only he can see is, what’s most painful for Naim is knowing it was the person who’s supposed to love him most, his mother (Wasikowska plays her with stern coldness) who agreed for this hex to be bestowed upon him. Illustrated via the filter of horror, what happens to Naim and Ryan is, in essence, a heightened, ghostly reinterpretation of conversion therapy. With smartly pointed moments, however, “Leviticus” also takes the time to suggest homophobia tarnishes everyone’s lives, not only does with a certain sexual orientation, but also that of the father who won’t see his son again, due to either death or estrangement.
Testament to the director’s assured control of his own concept, the tensest scenes are those when the young protagonists give into their desire for one another. They have experienced such violent attacks after being tricked into putting their guards down that trying to kiss or touch each other’s bodies fills them with anxiety, and yet they can’t help it. In one particular instance on a bus, Chiarella, knowing that the viewer will be on high alert, expertly toys with expectations. It’s a nail-biting scene that stands out as more intense than a run-of-the-mill jump scare. Not only because it’s logically built on the mechanics the filmmaker has established, but demonstrate Chiarella understands how long to let the scene run for powerful effect. The crux of the entire ordeal is that physical displays of affection carry life-or-death stakes, and yet Ryan and Naim are willing to take that risk.
With “Leviticus,” Chiarella wields horror in defense of queer love, avoiding easy sentimentalism, while also not surrendering to hopelessness, all while still satisfying the audience’s cravings for effective, bone-chilling uneasiness. Time will do its thing, but “Leviticus” does seem bound to earn a place in the pantheon of notable queer horror.
English (US) ·