An Exploration of Doom, Despair, and Queer Desire

DIRECTED BY ADRIAN CHIARELLA/2026

Horror has the unique ability to function as a vessel for profound societal issues. Monsters and demons are often physical representations of cultural unrest. A zombie apocalypse symbolizes the destructive effects of capitalism, a giant lizard is the embodiment of a country’s fear of nuclear disaster, evil demons are a manifestation of a mother’s depression, and so on. The careful blending of supernatural elements with the harsh realities of the real world is what highlights the capabilities of the genre. In his feature film debut, writer and director Adrian Chiarella tackles his own distinctive interpretation of mankind’s flawed structures. In this instance, the societal cracks being addressed involve the often volatile but always human emotion that is desire. Not all versions of longing are consistently accepted by every community, and certain feelings have a risky element of danger. That is the case for our young protagonists here as they tackle the overarching theme of the film: what if the person you desired the most became your greatest fear

Leviticus opens with a tight focus on our aforementioned young lovers. Naim (Joe Bird) appears comfortably content with watching the world revolve around him. The newcomer to this small town and the silent observer type, there is a maelstrom of complicated emotions brewing beneath his nervous disposition. Comparatively, Ryan (Stacy Clausen) is a blazing beacon in an otherwise dreary, industrial town. His natural charisma is the irresistible magnet that inevitably pulls Naim in. The friction between the two youngsters’ crackles and snaps with a kinetic electricity as they aimlessly wander their way through the desolate environment. Their escapade in breaking and entering into an abandoned mill culminates into a dramatic union at the drop of a dime. A playful wrestling match between young boys progresses as their mutual attraction propels them into their first passionate kiss. Toeing the line between violent and sexual as most queer works are apt to do, this encounter is the catalyst for the pair’s burgeoning relationship. 

There is an awkwardness to their interactions that is definitive of an average teenage romance, and it is only amplified by the oppressive culture of their Catholic small town. In this rural, religious environment, it is hard to keep anything secret when everybody attends the same church. Naim’s mother (played by a wonderful Mia Wasikowska) is particularly devoted to this tight-knit community. As Naim and Ryan gradually explore their romantic connection, they are careful to keep their dalliances to the far corners of town. All appears to be going well right up until Naim accidentally stumbles upon Ryan aggressively kissing the son of their pastor, Hunter (Jeremy Blewitt). Overcome with an intense burst of jealousy, this spurs Naim to commit a fatal act of betrayal by revealing the nature of Ryan and Hunter’s relationship to their church leader. His response is to call in the calvary, which in this case is a weathered, grim “deliverance healer” (Nicholas Hope) with fire-and-brimstone techniques. In front of entire congregation, the boys are subjected to a sinister séance meant to purge them of their impure desires. As the quasi-exorcism reaches its pinnacle, a sinister energy fills the silence while Ryan and Hunter are left screaming and writhing in agony. The evil is not being purged: it has been invited in. 

In the days that follow, the boys begin to exhibit bizarre behavior. When a guilty Naim ventures out to find Ryan, he discovers the other boy seemingly speaking to himself as he wanders through town. When Ryan runs bloodied from a photobooth stricken with terror, there is an unsettling understanding that something supernatural is lurking around the corner. In a clever addition to the scene, Naim snags the developed film to reveal Ryan was entirely alone in the booth. As Leviticus delves into the uncanny, the camera work expertly comes into play as the lines start to blur between reality and the supernatural. The audience starts to see beyond the veil and it becomes increasingly difficult to ascertain what is real as the story progresses. Before Naim has the chance to act upon his chilling discovery, his mother – worried and ashamed by his close friendship with Ryan – delivers her son straight into the clutches of the same spiritual healer. Now haunted by the same mysterious beast, Naim and Ryan must find a way to confront the evil entity as it morphs into their foremost desire and fear – each other.  

For a feature debut, director and writer Adrian Chiarella demonstrates a firm creative hand and an inquisitive thought process. Leviticus has a noticeably compact runtime, and Chiarella manages to communicate a powerful story with an understated approach. Absent are any flashy effects or computer-generated monsters. Instead, Chiarella leans into the bleak industrial atmosphere to generate a sense of detachment and unease. It does not hurt that both leads deliver powerful performances in their own unique way. Leviticus joins the growing ranks of poignant projects led by fresh faces this year. Joe Bird – who gained initial acclaim from his role in fellow Aussie horror flick Talk to Me – is given a chance to flex his muscles as an impressive scream king. Initially reserved and quietly composed, Naim floats through his world by creating as little disturbance as possible. When he finally takes the reins on his own fate, Naim discovers a sense of self-assuredness that draws him even closer to his counterpart. Stories like these rely fiercely on the palpable chemistry between their leads, and Bird and Clausen happily deliver. While Naim is all wound tight and nervous energy, the audience’s initial impression of Ryan is all aloofness and a notable physical assertiveness that borders on aggressive. Ryan’s swagger and nonchalant attitude give the impression of an effortless confidence that, later, becomes glaringly apparent is nonexistent. Clausen flips from cockiness to raw, vulnerable fear in a way that is heartbreakingly human. Surrounded by an oppressive community and haunted by a violent specter, the boys also must navigate the complexities of burgeoning, young romantic feelings.

If you remove the spectral elements, it is not hard to comprehend the story Chiarella is aiming to deliver here. Horror is a genre with a tendency to be drenched in metaphors, and Leviticus is a prime subject to examine. The connection between religion and queer identity is a tumultuous cocktail that has been explored ad nauseum through various art forms. Even the title of the film is a nod to biblical texts. The Book of Leviticus is notably infamous for containing language often used as evidence to villainize queer relationships. While Chiarella plays with the spiritual realm, the more horrific moments are grounded in a very genuine sense of fear experienced by an entire community. Naim and Ryan’s sexual desire is destructive to the two boys – both mentally and physically. Intimacy becomes perilous as the narrow-minded outside world threatens to condemn them for merely existing. Their monster is bred from the turmoil within, which suggests that it must be feeding from some real emotions. Both boys are battling their own experience with self-loathing that often comes deeply intertwined with the path to self-discovery. Chiarella confronts the terror of young queer love, but he also manages to communicate how equally transformative it is to experience discovering oneself at such a pivotal time in life. 

 Leviticus is not flawless, as there are noticeable, if miniscule, gaps within the plot. The rules surrounding the evil entities are blurry and questionable when examined for too long. Likewise, the condensed runtime leaves the audience a limited chance of understanding our tragic leads. It is Chiarella’s direct approach and the convincing chemistry between Bird and Clausen that rescue the film from tumbling into these occasional pitfalls. Our protagonists are dealt a bittersweet but heartbreakingly honest ending as they flee the hostile confines of their small town. The promise of escape delivers a dash of optimism that breaks through the gloom, but Chiarella takes the opportunity before the credits roll to remind us of the lingering sense of terror the queer community carry within themselves. Even as Naim and Ryan take one step further to living authentically, the threat of danger is constant weight to shoulder on the journey to confront the demons outside – and within.