Adrian Chiarella’s Leviticus is a demonic conversion-therapy horror that takes the joy of puppy love (and teen lust) and supernaturally weaponises it against queer kids, to haunting effect.
★★★★
In a conservative Christian enclave in Victoria, Australia, Naim (Joe Bird) and Ryan (Stacy Clausen) are circling one another with the usual hesitations, that come with being queer in a decidedly homophobic environment: the half-steps forward and backward that come with not knowing how much is allowed. That uncertainty is short-lived. Once they are discovered, thanks to some bad choices by Naim and the machinations of his mother (Mia Wasikowska, strong as ever), the response is immediate and organised. A magic Christian ritual is arranged, and presented as caring, designed to ‘correct’ their path. It unleashes a nightmare.
Afterward, Naim starts to see Ryan in unexpected places, standing in rooms, waiting in open spaces, watching. The same is true in reverse. But this is not Naim or Ryan. The presence that follows them wears the face of the person they want most, so it does not need to hurry. If they allow it to get close, to be alone with it one-on-one… that’s when it can kill. And with that, no loving embrace can ever be trusted again.
Joe Bird is superb as Naim, already cautious before anything supernatural happens, second-guessing how he moves through the town, what he reveals, and what he keeps to himself. After the ritual, that caution metastasises into a paranoid terror, with every interaction loaded with doubt – is that really his dream boy walking down the street, or a demon sent to destroy him? Clausen gives Ryan a physicality that works in two directions at once, attractively confident but threateningly dominant.
There are clear echoes of It Follows in the way the threat operates, and with Talk to Me in its attention to how the secret lives of the young create a space that evil can enter. Leviticus keeps its focus – it stays with its central image and milks it for paranoia, terror, despair and sadness. Interiors are shot from low down with deadening colours, as if air has stopped moving, and the darkness of the sparse Australian suburban night feels endless. There’s a strange feeling that the community has used these boys’ queer desire to turn them into both victim and monster, and they cannot escape from that framing.
Leviticus is suffused with melancholy, and trusts its premise, its performers, and the space between desire and doubt. It depicts human hate crimes alongside the supernatural hate crime of its very premise, and makes it clear that both are a rejection of humanity. It astutely finds horror in a world where embracing love might destroy you. The result is a film that leaves you with a single image that cannot quite be shaken: the person you want, beckoning, waiting for you to come closer.
Leviticus played at the Overlook Film Festival in New Orleans.
Whitlock&Pope 