07 Jun SYDNEY FILM FESTIVAL REVIEW – ‘Leviticus’ terrifies as effectively as it breaks your heart
Posted at 17:55h
in Reviews
by Doug Jamieson
Teenage love stories rarely come wrapped in nightmares. They certainly don’t usually involve shape-shifting demons, fanatical religious communities, and conversion therapy rituals that feel more like exorcisms. Somehow, Adrian Chiarella‘s remarkable debut feature manages to blend all of those elements into something unexpectedly beautiful.
Creepy and heartbreaking in equal measure, Leviticus turns queer longing into nightmare fuel without ever losing sight of the tenderness and humanity that make its horror so devastating. It is one of the year’s best horror films and another reminder that Australian genre cinema is operating at an extraordinarily high level.
Set in a secluded rural town where religion dominates every aspect of daily life, Leviticus follows teenager Naim (Joe Bird), who moves with his mother Arlene (Mia Wasikowska) after their lives are uprooted. Struggling to fit in amongst the devout Christian community, he slowly forms a friendship with fellow teenager Ryan (Stacy Clausen).
Their connection quickly blossoms into something deeper, with secret meetings at an abandoned mill providing them with a rare opportunity to be themselves away from the judging eyes of the world around them. But in communities built upon repression, secrets rarely remain hidden for long.
When Naim discovers that Ryan has also been involved with the preacher’s son Hunter (Jeremy Blewitt), his heartbreak inadvertently exposes the boys to the church elders. What follows initially appears to be little more than humiliating theatre, an elaborate display designed to shame them into conformity. Instead, a terrifying ritual unleashes something far more sinister.
Under the guidance of a menacing “deliverance healer” (Nicholas Hope), the boys become cursed, haunted nightly by entities that take the form of the people they desire most. The closer they become to the objects of their affection, the stronger and more manipulative these monsters become.
It’s an ingenious premise, and Chiarella wrings every ounce of emotional and thematic resonance from it. There are obvious comparisons to It Follows, and they are impossible to ignore. Both films revolve around an inescapable supernatural threat linked to intimacy and desire that no one but the victim can see.
But where David Robert Mitchell’s masterpiece used sex as its primary metaphor, Leviticus is interested in something much more specific and arguably much more heartbreaking. This is horror born from shame. Horror born from repression. Horror born from being taught that your deepest feelings are not only wrong, but something that must be violently removed from you.
The brilliance of Chiarella’s screenplay lies in how naturally these ideas emerge. Nothing feels forced or heavy-handed. The allegory works because it springs directly from character and emotion rather than existing solely to make a point.
Every terrifying encounter with the creature feels loaded with meaning. The monster itself isn’t merely trying to kill these boys. It weaponises the very thing they long for most. It transforms intimacy into danger and love into something terrifying. It’s difficult to think of many recent horror films that have explored internalised shame with such genuine compassion.
That compassion extends to the film’s love story, which Bird and Clausen beautifully realise. Their chemistry is extraordinary, and it forms the emotional backbone of the entire film. Chiarella wisely understands that the audience must first fall in love with these boys before placing them through hell, and Bird and Clausen make that task look effortless.
The early scenes between Naim and Ryan are filled with awkward smiles, nervous glances, and hesitant touches that perfectly capture the excitement and fear of first love. Their relationship never feels manufactured or idealised. Instead, it possesses the messy vulnerability that makes young romance feel so authentic. And because the romance works so well, the horror becomes almost unbearable.
Bird continues to prove himself one of Australia’s most exciting young performers. Following Talk to Me, he delivers another extraordinary performance here. Naim spends much of the film wrestling with confusion, fear and overwhelming loneliness, and Bird captures every layer of that internal conflict with remarkable maturity.
His performance is understated but incredibly moving, allowing the audience to feel every ounce of his heartbreak and terror. There is a melancholy to Bird’s work that lingers long after the credits roll.
Equally impressive is Clausen. Ryan initially projects the kind of rough masculinity expected of him by his environment, but Clausen gradually reveals the frightened and vulnerable teenager hiding underneath. Clausen beautifully communicates the exhausting burden of constantly performing a version of yourself designed to keep others comfortable.
Together, Bird and Clausen are sublime. Their scenes possess a tenderness that gives the film much of its emotional weight. Some horror films use romance simply as a narrative device. Leviticus understands that love itself is worth protecting, which makes the cruelty inflicted upon these boys feel genuinely tragic.
The film’s villains are equally effective because they are rooted in recognisable forms of evil. Chiarella isn’t interested in cartoonish monsters disguised as religious figures. Instead, he examines how fanaticism and dogma can turn ordinary people into instruments of cruelty.
Chiarella’s direction is astonishingly assured for a debut feature. From the opening frames, there is a confidence and patience to his filmmaking that belies his inexperience. He understands atmosphere. He understands pacing. More importantly, he understands restraint.
Rather than relying on endless jump scares, Leviticus builds dread through suggestion and anticipation. The slow accumulation of unease becomes almost unbearable, with moments of silence proving just as frightening as the film’s more overt scares.
And when Chiarella finally decides to unleash horror, he does so with brutal effectiveness. Several sequences are genuinely terrifying. The nightly visitations by the creatures are truly unnerving, made all the more disturbing by their intimate nature.
There is something deeply unsettling about watching love become twisted into something predatory. The monsters are not simply physical threats. They are emotional ones. Their appearances force the boys to confront everything they have been taught to fear about themselves.
Tyson Perkins‘ cinematography transforms rural Australia into a place of eerie beauty. The abandoned mill where Naim and Ryan seek refuge becomes one of the film’s most powerful symbols. Hidden away from the world, it represents the only place where they can truly be themselves. Yet even there, danger eventually finds them.
The imagery throughout Leviticus is striking, with Perkins bathing scenes in soft moonlight and shadowy blues that create an almost dreamlike quality. The film often feels suspended between reality and nightmare, allowing the supernatural elements to emerge organically from the emotional landscape.
What makes Leviticus so powerful, though, is that beneath the monsters and metaphors lies something deeply human. This is a film about persecution. About shame. About communities that preach love while weaponising fear. About the terrible damage inflicted when young people are taught to view themselves as broken.
And yet, for all its darkness, Leviticus never feels hopeless. Chiarella approaches his characters with remarkable empathy. He understands that fear, however destructive, often stems from generations of inherited pain and ignorance.
The film refuses to simplify its themes into easy heroes and villains, instead presenting a world where compassion remains possible even amidst unimaginable cruelty. It is this emotional generosity that elevates Leviticus beyond being merely a clever allegory.
Not everything works perfectly. The similarities to It Follows occasionally prove distracting, particularly during the middle section, where the mechanics of the curse feel somewhat familiar. While the film ultimately establishes its own identity, the comparisons are unavoidable.
Likewise, the final act loses some momentum after such an extraordinary buildup. The emotional payoff remains satisfying, but the pacing briefly falters before recovering for a strong conclusion.
Wasikowska also feels somewhat underserved. She brings quiet sadness to the role of mother who genuinely believes she’s helping her “troubled” child with religious intervention. But the screenplay doesn’t offer her the same complexity afforded to the younger characters. One can’t help wishing she had been given more to do.
These criticisms, however, feel remarkably minor when measured against everything the film achieves. Leviticus is creepy, romantic, emotionally raw and genuinely frightening. It transforms the queer experience into something haunting without ever suggesting that love itself is the problem.
The monsters in this world aren’t desire or intimacy. They’re shame, repression, and the people who seek to weaponise them. Chiarella announces himself as a filmmaker to watch with a debut of remarkable confidence and compassion. Another triumph for Australian horror, Chiarella has crafted a chilling film that terrifies as effectively as it breaks your heart.
Distributor: Neon
Cast: Joe Bird, Stacy Clausen, Mia Wasikowska, Ewen Leslie, Jeremy Blewitt, Nicholas Hope
Director: Adrian Chiarella
Producers: Samantha Jennings, Kristina Ceyton, Hannah Ngo
Screenplay: Adrian Chiarella
Cinematography: Tyson Perkins
Production Design: Bethany Ryan
Costume Design: Zohie Castellano
Editor: Nick Fenton
Music: Jed Kurzel
Running Time: 88 minutes
Release Date: 18th June 2026 (Australia)