In Leviticus, The Monster Is in the Closet

In Gothic horror, the monster is an outsider who endangers the characters’ way of life by embodying their darkest impulses. But what if the threat didn’t come from without, but from within? That’s the key question in writer-director Adrian Chiarella’s queer horror film Leviticus. For the film’s teenage protagonists, their secret desires are also their greatest fears. But it’s not their sexuality that’s monstrous. It’s the way that those around them react to it.

Levicitus takes place in in a small Australian industrial town, a rugged, repressed place that’s made up of low, wide concrete buildings, abandoned factories, and drab patches of dirt. There, timid Naim (Joe Bird) lives with his mother Arlene (Mia Wasikowska), a born-again Christian who drags her son every weekend to hear sermons about hellfire and divine judgement. Naim and Arlene are new in town, and Arlene is eager to fit in with her church community. What she doesn’t know is that Naim has already made a special friend: He’s been hooking up with his laddish classmate Ryan (Stacy Clausen), and the two have formed a hesitant, but affectionate bond.

Their secret relationship is exciting, and even kind of sweet — that is, until they get caught. Soon, the boys are standing in front of a “Deliverance Healer” (Nicholas Hope), who performs an exorcism designed to “cast the demon” of homosexuality out of them. Their pastor (Ewen Leslie) claims it’s a cure; in reality, it’s a curse. After the ceremony, Naim begins seeing visions of a figure who looks exactly like Ryan, but with one major difference: This thing, whatever it is, will not stop attacking Naim until one or both of them is dead. And Ryan? He’s seeing something similar, except he thinks that Naim is trying to murder him.

If that sounds a lot like the plot of It Follows, well, it is. This similarity — even the “rules” for fighting back against Leviticus’ deadly doppelgängers are comparable — is the weakest point of Chiarella’s debut, and admirers of David Robert Mitchell’s modern horror classic may have trouble looking past it to appreciate Leviticus on its own merits. The cinematography, all overcast skies and claustrophobic compositions, owes an aesthetic debt to the “elevated horror” movies of the 2010s as well. The comparison goes even further: As with, say, The Babadook — another Australian horror movie, and a clear influence on this one — Leviticus puts its themes first.

Ironically, however, the aspect most likely to turn off casual viewers is also Leviticus’ biggest strength. The metaphor at the center of Chiarella’s film is hardy enough to accommodate a multitude of nuances, effectively capturing the psychology of being a closeted teenager in an unaccepting family. This includes the weaponizing of the characters’ guilt around their “sinful” sexuality, creating the lonely, self-loathing fear that they’re tainting the people they care about just by loving them.

These anxieties are expressed in a series of grisly scenes where queer teenagers are supernaturally slaughtered in bloody, shocking ways. (Although there are moments of respite and even hope, there’s very little comedy in this film.) Chiarella makes clear that this suffering is all unnecessary and undeserved, and we’re encouraged to identify with Naim and the other teens. This makes Leviticus a difficult, but ultimately cathartic watch for LGBTQIA+ adults, who will see aspects of their own upbringings — or a fate they were lucky to escape — in Naim and Ryan’s story. (For those concerned about the “bury your gays” trope, just know that the curse, or the entity, or whatever it is, does have its weaknesses.)

Christianity is definitely part of the problem, but the film’s harshest judgment is reserved for these kids’ parents, who put their need for social acceptance over their love for their children by abandoning them to their gruesome fates. Does it matter if an adult thinks that they’re doing the “right thing,” if that thing is going to hurt a child? This film doesn’t think so. It’s a powerful condemnation of so-called “conversion therapy,” a pseudoscientific, often religiously motivated practice that purports to “fix” gay people by turning them straight. (It’s harmful, and it doesn’t work.)

In 2026, coming out is no big deal in some families. In others, it’s still a terrifying act. “Conversion therapy” is now banned in much of Australia, as well as in 22 of the 50 U.S. states. But it’s not banned everywhere, and with the recent global surge in right-wing religious conservatism, more kids than ever are vulnerable to the kind of psychological torture metaphorically depicted in Leviticus. This movie is for them.

From NEON, Leviticus opens in theaters on June 19.