‘Leviticus’ review: Adrian Chiarella’s debut pulsates with palpable dread

Adrian Chiarella explores the solace of desire and dangers of indoctrination in his debut, Leviticus.

Possessing one of the more unsettling horror concepts in recent years, Leviticus earns its chills through unassuming simplicity. With a conscious eye for lurking dangers, the film, written and directed by first-time feature director Adrian Chiarella, taps into a sense of seismic-scale unease. Following two teen boys living in rural Victoria, Australia, where religion seemingly presides over all else, they find solace in one another. However, two crucial moments disrupt that safe haven. First, by a petty act, and second, by an unknown entity following them. An entity that takes the form of who they desire the most, each other. 

What a tremendous premise. It is so rich in allegorical density despite the brief runtime. It’s so interesting that it’s somewhat befuddling that Chiarella seems to reach a point in the script where he loses direction, lost in a lot of big ideas and thematic tension. Leviticus is a good film with a great concept, which makes it a shame that the former couldn’t match the excellence of the latter.

Frankly, if you’re willing to look outside your typical medium, The Summer Hikaru Died plays with a lot of similar themes (mysterious entity that looks like a loved one set in a rural, religious town) and is absolutely excellent. That said, if film is your medium and anime too vast to dive into, Chiarella has more than enough here to work with, even if it begins to lose steam.

Chiarella’s debut is an act of mounting tension.

Naim (Joe Bird, Talk to Me) is an aimless youth who relies on his mother (Mia Wasikowska) and the boy he’s smitten with, Ryan (Stacey Clausen), for socializing after his father’s death. He attends church where the youth choir defaults to those deceptive, alt-rock stylings to appeal to the malleable teenagers, but his best days are with Ryan, occupying his space. But that respite is disrupted when Naim witnesses Ryan kiss the pastor’s son, Hunter, and outs them in a fit of confusion and hurt. The two are subjected to a deliverance-style ritual as a means to “cure” them of their sexuality. That curse takes the form of a mysterious entity that preys on the two by adopting the vestige of the person they desire most.

As the film progresses, Naim finds himself similarly a target for the entity, constantly believing the fake Ryan is the real one, before the two must shuffle the board once again and try to find new ways to hide from the thing violently attacking them. Their hope and love for one another are both their downfall, making them susceptible to the entity’s lies, while also being their continued refuge.

Because if they’re always together, they cannot doubt as to who is chasing them. But it’s that former part that gives Chiarella’s work such weight.

In Leviticus, shame, religious trauma, and homophobia takes a tangible form.

Because what a deliciously, emotionally squeamish way to tackle the rampant homophobia and religious bigotry. The “cure” for their sexuality is to make the person they desire dangerous. It’s a way to force them to be alone, force them to not pursue romance, because anyone they most desire will now have the capability to ruin them. It takes the quiet sense of lurking danger and loud-mouthed prejudice and makes it literal. The church decrees that being queer is a sin and then makes a monster out of the madness of young love.

Despite the strength of the idea and the promise of the threat facing Naim and Ryan, Leviticus struggles under the weight of expectations. Because while the idea is good, it struggles with active engagement throughout. The finds moments of excellence, the rest solid but struggling to meet expectations. The aesthetic builds on the haunting exposure of the town, vacant yet welcoming to peering eyes. And Chiarella and cinematographer Tyson Perkins make good work out of utilizing the frequent bouts of darkness to leave us breathlessly waiting for the next scare.

Bird and Clausen share palpable chemistry, whether they’re coiled together as if breathing with the same lungs or refusing to meet the others’ gaze. Neither Naim nor Ryan is has much by way of backstory or personality beyond their attraction to each other. Still, the two actors do a good job of selling their connection, even when it’s strained by other potential suitors or the weight of a town’s condemnation.

Romance and horror come together.

But, more than anything, it’s in the moments where romance and horror blend that Chiarella’s work truly sings. One scene in particular, where Naim and Ryan are locked on one another, thrumming with delirium, so much relief that they’re able to shut out the world around them, is breathtaking in two ways. One, because it proves an act of burning defiance. Two young men flipping the bird, scorching the earth, and, momentarily, defying the convictions of those who believe in a strict heaven and hell for the sake of their own pleasures and sense of comfort—a moment truly for themselves.

Secondly, because the tension floods the screen as we hold our breath, waiting for the next monster sighting, for the shoe to drop. Yearning transforms into dread. The coupling of fear and comfort is astonishing and promises a mighty future for Chiarella.

The bottom line.

As a whole, not everything about Leviticus comes together. The concept, however, is brilliant, and the persistent dread follows us home, just like the entity follows Naim to his doorstep, bartering, pleading, and threatening to come inside. With blazing confidence and a thrilling, momentous throughline, Leviticus is a blistering debut filled with immense potential.

Leviticus is out now in theaters. Watch the trailer below. 

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Images courtesy of NEON.