There is a long and fascinating history of queer storytelling finding a home within horror. Perhaps that is because horror has always understood what it means to live in the shadows. To hide parts of yourself. To fear being discovered. To exist in spaces where simply being seen can feel dangerous.
Writer and director Adrian Chiarella clearly understands that tradition, but what makes Leviticus so effective is that it never treats its themes as intellectual exercises or genre mechanics. This is not a horror film that merely uses queerness as metaphor. It is a horror film about the very real terror of being taught that your authentic self is something dangerous, something shameful, something that must be suppressed at all costs. For a feature debut, it is an impressively confident piece of filmmaking. One that balances tenderness, rage, heartbreak, and genuine terror with remarkable assurance. It may not be a perfect film, but it is absolutely one of the most memorable horror debuts I have seen in recent years.
The premise is brilliantly simple. Two teenage boys living in a deeply conservative environment find themselves confronting feelings neither fully understands how to process. After a traumatic religious intervention, a violent supernatural entity begins stalking them, taking the form of the person they desire most. The comparisons to It Follows are inevitable, and admittedly they are not entirely unfair. There is similar DNA here. An inescapable presence. A curse that lingers. A constant sense of dread hanging over every interaction. But what Chiarella does with that framework feels fundamentally different. It Follows explored fear surrounding intimacy. Leviticus explores what happens when intimacy itself is treated as something monstrous. The distinction is crucial. The horror here is not that desire exists. The horror is being taught that desire makes you worthy of punishment. That idea becomes increasingly chilling the deeper the film descends into its nightmare.
What struck me most is how effectively the film captures a very specific kind of fear. Not the fear of monsters lurking under the bed. Not the fear of killers hiding in the shadows. But the fear of being caught. The fear of parents finding out. The fear of classmates noticing. The fear of becoming the target of judgment, ridicule, or rejection. Anyone who has ever hidden a part of themselves understands that feeling. Chiarella taps into it with devastating precision. The film repeatedly asks what happens when shame becomes internalized so deeply that you begin treating the person you love as the enemy. What happens when hatred becomes so normalized that it starts masquerading as protection. The answer, according to Leviticus, is terrifying. Pretty powerful message, really. If you let in your shame and ignore your desire, it will eventually destroy you.
One of the smartest decisions Chiarella makes is grounding the entire story in an authentic emotional relationship. Too many elevated horror films become so obsessed with their metaphor that they forget to create believable human beings. That is never a problem here. Joe Bird and Stacy Clausen deliver phenomenal performances that bring enormous emotional weight to the story. Their chemistry feels natural, vulnerable, awkward, and deeply sincere. The film spends enough time allowing us to understand who these characters are beyond the horror framework that every frightening moment carries genuine emotional stakes. There are scenes between them that feel incredibly romantic, full of longing and tenderness. Some of the film's strongest moments are not its scares but its quiet observations about connection, loneliness, and the desperate human need to be understood by another person.
Visually, the film is absolutely gorgeous. Cinematographer Tyson Perkins transforms rural Australia into a landscape that feels both beautiful and hostile. Empty parks, abandoned factories, rundown churches, forgotten swimming pools, and industrial spaces become extensions of the characters' emotional states. Chiarella frequently frames his characters against vast stretches of negative space, emphasizing their isolation and vulnerability. Even before the supernatural elements arrive, these environments already feel haunted. There is a loneliness embedded into the visual language of the film that never lets up. The industrial town setting works wonderfully because it constantly reinforces the sense that there is nowhere to hide. Every location feels exposed. Every quiet corner feels observed. Every act of intimacy feels like it might be interrupted at any moment.
The horror itself is remarkably effective because it grows organically from the emotional themes. Chiarella understands that the best horror concepts are often terrifying because they reveal uncomfortable truths. The central entity functions not simply as a monster but as the physical manifestation of a culture that teaches young people to fear themselves. In trying to erase desire, the adults in this world inadvertently create something far more dangerous. It is a wonderfully tragic idea. The act of hatred itself becomes the source of evil. The film contains several genuinely unnerving sequences, a handful of very effective jump scares, and some impressively gnarly moments of violence. Yet what lingered with me most was not the gore or the shocks. It was the sadness. The overwhelming sense of watching two people fight against forces determined to convince them that love is something to be ashamed of.
I also appreciated how refreshingly sincere the film feels. Modern horror can sometimes default to cynicism, irony, or emotional distance. Leviticus embraces earnestness. It believes in its characters. It believes in their emotions. It believes in the value of vulnerability. There are moments that could easily have become melodramatic in lesser hands, yet Chiarella consistently finds emotional truth within them. The film becomes as much a coming-of-age drama as a horror story. In fact, there were stretches where I found myself more invested in the evolving relationship than the supernatural mystery itself. That is not a criticism. If anything, it speaks to how effectively the film builds its emotional foundation. By the time the horror escalates, you care deeply about what happens to these characters.
If I have one major reservation, it is that the film occasionally feels caught between exploring its central relationship and diving deeper into its religious themes. Given the title, I found myself hoping for a more expansive examination of the Christian ideology driving much of the story's conflict. The foundations are certainly there, but some of those ideas remain underdeveloped. There are also moments where the pacing slows considerably, and I can understand viewers who feel certain sections stretch longer than necessary. The film is undeniably a slow burn. Thankfully, it earns that patience by the time it reaches its final act. Still, there were occasions where I felt Chiarella could have pushed both the thematic exploration and the horror elements even further than he ultimately does.
What makes Leviticus stand apart from many contemporary horror films is that it understands horror can be an act of empathy. The film never treats its characters as symbols. They are not simply representatives of larger ideas. They are frightened teenagers trying to navigate impossible circumstances. The supernatural threat may drive the plot, but the emotional truth driving the story remains painfully human. Chiarella clearly has a deep understanding of how horror has historically functioned as a space for marginalized voices. The film feels like both an homage to that tradition and an attempt to push it forward. There is genuine love here for the genre and for the generations of queer storytellers who helped shape it.
By the time the credits rolled, I found myself thinking less about the scares and more about the ache at the center of the story. The fear of rejection. The damage caused by shame. The exhausting weight of hiding who you are. Leviticus may wear the clothes of supernatural horror, but at its core it is a film about self-acceptance. About refusing to let other people's hatred define your identity. About understanding that the monster was never your desire in the first place. Adrian Chiarella announces himself as a filmmaker with a strong voice, a clear point of view, and an impressive command of both atmosphere and emotion. The film may not reach every thematic destination I wanted it to, but what it accomplishes is powerful, moving, and genuinely haunting. In a year already filled with strong horror offerings, Leviticus stands out as one of the most emotionally resonant. It is scary. It is romantic. It is heartbreaking. And above all else, it carries a message that feels sadly necessary: love who you love, and never let shame convince you otherwise.
Leviticus releases in Theaters on June 19, 2026.
