Leviticus (Australia)
What makes Leviticus frightening is not just the shapeshifting spirit. Its most unsettling idea is that the creature appears as the person someone wants most, turning desire and intimacy into sources of doubt. Because it only manifests when someone is alone, even Naim and Ryan cannot be sure who they are seeing.
That supernatural threat grows out of a relationship between two boys. After moving to a small, religious town in Australia, Naim gets close to Ryan. They discover they are attracted to each other, kiss, and go further. Naim is happy, hoping he might finally stop feeling like an outsider. But when he sees Ryan with another classmate, Hunter, jealousy wins. Naim tells their pastor, setting off consequences he never expected.
The pastor subjects Ryan and Hunter to an exorcism that functions as conversion therapy. Afterward, both seem to speak to something unseen. Naim investigates and witnesses an invisible force take control of them; it kills Hunter. When Naim’s mother learns he has been spending time with Ryan, she turns against him and takes him to the same exorcist. Naim then faces the shapeshifting spirit himself.
Recognizing that they are caught in the same curse, Naim and Ryan join forces to find a way out. The spirit’s appearances make it impossible to know for certain whether the person before them is real. They try to stay together, but their alliance breaks when Ryan discovers that Naim’s actions brought the danger into their lives. Naim spirals, then learns fire can stop the spirit. He sets Ryan—or the spirit wearing Ryan’s form—on fire. In the end, the boys leave town separately, yet remain connected.
The film uses religious persecution as a starting point, but its concerns also include first love, discovering one’s sexuality, and the fear of being truly seen. Its title refers to the biblical book long used to justify persecution of gay people. Though the filmmaking is rough around the edges, there is more beneath it than its surface suggests. The monster’s familiar face keeps reality uncertain, while the story follows two boys determined not to deny who they are, despite what that choice costs.
One scene distills the film’s argument: Naim’s mother tells him that being scared is good, because fear is something they need. The deepest horror, the film suggests, is not supernatural. It is the lengths people will go to—including against their own children—to drive out the “demons” they believe are inside them, simply because two boys love each other.
The performances make that story convincing, especially those of the leads. Naim’s actor is strong, but Ryan’s portrayal stands out: wounded, confused and angry, conveyed largely through expression and physicality. That is particularly effective given that he is essentially playing two versions of the same character. I wanted more insight into what Naim’s relationship with his mother was like before these events; that history could have added a lot.
The ending may feel too simple to some viewers, but it need not have one definitive interpretation. The director’s message remains clear, and the conclusion works. Even as someone who is not usually drawn to horror, I found the film compelling. It avoids the jump scares that tend to bother me, while sustaining a creepy tension. Horror films rarely handle queer relationships well; older examples often lean campy or feel like trash. Leviticus instead builds its monster story around an emotionally grounded relationship, making it both an effective psychological horror film and pointed social commentary. It earns its place as a standout in queer horror right now. (7/10)