Religion and horror have long shared a common language. Both deal in fear, temptation, guilt, and the consequences of transgression. Adrian Chiarella‘s Leviticus understands that connection intimately, using supernatural terror not simply to frighten its audience but to examine the emotional violence inflicted upon queer people by institutions that claim to offer salvation.
Set within a tightly wound regional Australian community dominated by an evangelical church, the film follows teenager Naim (Joe Bird), who develops a connection with local Ryan (Stacy Clausen). Their relationship unfolds largely in secret, hidden away in abandoned spaces and quiet corners where they can briefly exist without judgment. Chiarella is less interested in the thrill of first love than the anxiety that accompanies it when every expression of affection feels dangerous.
What immediately distinguishes Leviticus is the sincerity of its central romance. Bird and Clausen bring a tenderness to their performances that grounds even the film’s more heightened horror elements. Their chemistry feels lived-in and authentic, and the aching uncertainty that defines so many queer adolescent experiences hangs over every interaction. The film works best when it allows these quieter moments to breathe, finding genuine emotional weight in stolen glances and hesitant intimacy.
The horror arrives through the community’s attempts to “cure” queer desire via a form of deliverance ritual that unleashes a supernatural presence. The concept is undeniably effective. The entity manifests as the person its victim desires most, transforming attraction itself into a source of fear. It’s a clever metaphor for internalised shame and religious repression, and one that generates several genuinely unsettling sequences.
Visually, Chiarella and cinematographer Tyson Perkins create an atmosphere of isolation and melancholy that lingers long after individual scares fade. Empty industrial landscapes, lonely suburban streets and dimly lit interiors contribute to a sense of emotional exile. Even when characters are surrounded by others, they feel profoundly alone.
Yet Leviticus occasionally struggles to maintain momentum across its runtime. The narrative falls into a repetitive rhythm as characters confront similar fears and variations of the same threat. While each encounter reinforces the film’s thematic concerns, the structure can begin to feel cyclical, preventing the story from building the escalating tension its premise seems to promise. The horror mechanics themselves are sometimes left frustratingly vague, making certain developments feel more emotionally driven than narratively satisfying.
Even so, the film’s shortcomings never undermine its purpose. Chiarella approaches his subject matter with compassion and conviction, refusing to soften the damage caused by religious intolerance while also refusing to reduce his characters to victims. The film is angry when it needs to be, heartbreaking when it wants to be, and deeply empathetic throughout.
More importantly, Leviticus arrives at a moment when stories about queer survival feel increasingly necessary. Its message is not subtle, nor should it be. The film confronts the reality that for many LGBTQ+ people, shame is not something that appears naturally but something taught, reinforced, and weaponised by the communities around them.
As a horror film, Leviticus is occasionally uneven. As a queer love story, it is moving and affecting. As a statement about the damage caused by intolerance masquerading as faith, it is powerful. Chiarella’s debut may not always balance its ambitions perfectly, but it remains a haunting, worthwhile work that speaks directly to audiences who rarely see their fears reflected with this much honesty.
THREE AND A HALF STARS (OUT OF FIVE)
Leviticus is screening in Australian theatres from June 18th, 2026, before opening in the United States on June 19th.
