The boundary between love and fear is so narrow, they might as well be the same emotion – incredibly passionate responses to stimuli that can manifest either as a sudden burst or a more gradual unravelling, all of which is intended to pull us out of our comfort zone and experience something much more visceral. There are even instances where what we desire and what we fear tend to take on the exact same form, with the decision being around which of the two reactions are more appropriate in a given moment. It’s a concept that is not easy to describe without much context, and which often works better in practice, since it’s a difficult process to put exact emotions into words. Adrian Chiarella uses this conversation to kickstart Leviticus, his audacious directorial debut in which we see the separation between lust and terror interweaving in the form of this deceptive and intense psychological horror. The film follows Naim, a teenager who has just moved to a remote community in rural Australia, where religion is this society’s guiding force, and the metric on which they measure what is socially acceptable and allowed within their community. Almost immediately, Naim finds himself deviating from the strict social code when he meets Ryan, one of his classmates, to whom he takes an immediate liking. Before long, the two boys find themselves falling madly in love – but when the entire community is defined by strict conservative values, they discover even keeping their mutual affection concealed behind closed doors is not enough, especially when it becomes clear that there is a sinister force lingering nearby that is willing to do whatever it takes to make itself known. A seemingly conventional work of horror that makes its intentions and underlying themes quite clear from the outset, Leviticus is a peculiar and captivating film that may not always be as consistent as it perhaps ought to have been, but more than makes up for these flaws in its fascinating execution and the sheer gall that went into telling this unconventional story.

There has been a steady contingent of critics and theorists who have put forward a fascinating topic of discussion: horror as a genre is inherently queer, with its roots being within a storytelling technique that was often used to conceal more provocative social taboos that many preferred to keep concealed. Many horror films from across the decades have been subjected to a range of close readings, several of which involve filtering these stories through a lens associated with some element of queer theory, in an effort to highlight how many of these works are about repression, social deviance, and the challenges of growing into one’s identity. As the years have progressed, this has been far less subtle in many films, with some even making it abundantly clear that this was the intention behind a particular story – which is where we find Leviticus, a film that has no interest in playing coy and taking the viewer on an unnecessarily dense journey. Queerness is central to this film to the point where it is one of the first pieces of information we receive about these young characters who lead the film – Naim and Ryan are deeply in love with one another, their attraction never being left up for debate (which is a step away from many queer-coded horror films being about characters uncomfortable with their identity or at least questioning it), and their affection not being the source of self-loathing, at least not initially. As the story progresses, the entity that begins to terrorise the boys becomes more obvious, its goals never entirely clear, but its purpose being obvious, which ties back to the very thin separation between desire and fear, which the film once again emphasises as being two sides of the same overall experience. Chiarella uses all of this as the basis for a film that moves in several different directions, each one more complex than the last, and ultimately revealing layers of complexity that are often more difficult to parse than we may initially expect, which makes the film’s decision to establish its core themes from the outset even more intriguing.

Much like any horror film, but especially those that occupy this recent wave of more socially-conscious stories (the phrase usually associated with them being “elevated”, a borderline reductive term that indicates that only horror films that have something explicit to say are worthy of being placed on a pedestal), the execution is almost as important as the subject being explored, since without the right approach, those conversations would be invalidated as a result of lacking the right balance of complexity and intention. Leviticus is a film primarily driven by atmosphere – this is not the kind of film that relies on jump-scares or any kind of obvious trope that would be liberally scattered throughout any number of similarly-themed works – which is the only correct way to actually tell such a story. Demonic possession (or the closest approximation of it, since the film is intentionally aloof when it comes to offering clear explanations on the source of malice in the film, which is actually a surprisingly good decision given what is being explored) is inherently scary in principle, but we find that it isn’t always effective on its own when shown on screen, at least in instances where it doesn’t involve copious violence, which is certainly often the case. There is some gore in Leviticus, but it is used sparingly, reserved for moments where it actually makes sense to plunge these characters into a frenzy, with most of the terror being contained in what we suspect rather than what we physically see – we may not know what lingers around the corner, but it’s the thought that something could be there that is actually most terrifying, and which extends beyond just the very obvious themes of some entity being passed between these characters, and actually touches on something much more primal and difficult to pin down. It’s ultimately a far more captivating affair than perhaps many may expect, with its earnestness and ability to capture something quite raw without trying too desperately to be scary that elevates the film considerably.

One of the more interesting benefits of making a horror film that centres around younger characters is that it provides the opportunity to make a discovery in terms of the actors, since it is not always easy to portray unhinged terror and despair as a seasoned veteran, so it requires even more work from newcomers or those who don’t have as much experience. There are a few small issues that this film has in terms of characterisation, but absolutely none of them have to do with the two main performances, who are both absolutely stellar despite the actors’ limited experience, which actually turned out to be a merit, particularly in how it gave the director even more to work with. The more central of the two is Joe Bird, who plays Naim, the audience surrogate and the person through whose eyes we see the events of the film unfolding. It’s not an easy role by any means, since it requires an actor who could play into both the very tense, complex interior life of this character, while also playing into the unbridled terror he feels as the events of the film transpire. Bird is very strong, knowing where to draw the line between an aloof, distant teenager, and someone who is witnessing unspeakable horrors, seemingly the only person privy to these terrifying situations. Equally strong is Stacy Clausen as Ryan, who could’ve very easily have been a one-dimensional archetype, particularly as his character primarily functions as an object of desire for Naim, but who turns in a remarkably layered, striking performance that turns the role into one that leaves perhaps the biggest impression. Clausen is a revelation, finding the right combination between the very different attitudes present in the character, and the film massively benefits as a result of his very intricate work that seems simple at a glance, but has depths that are only revealed as the film progresses, highlighting the strength of both performances and the role they play in bringing the core themes of the film to the screen.

As is now common practice with these wunderkind horror directors who enter the picture with these ambitious and daring works, I will reserve judgment of Chiarella as a visionary auteur until we see what he does next, since there have been many incidents of these rambunctious young filmmakers getting a seat at the table with just a tremendous debut, only to disappoint with their next project. However, all signs do point towards him being a potentially important filmmaker, since he possesses something that cannot be manufactured: a genuine point of view, and the willingness to bring it to life on screen however possible, which takes a lot of talent and gumption in equal measure. Leviticus is a strong debut for him as a writer and director, since even at its most pedestrian and obvious, there is something remarkably compelling about the film and how it functions beyond the obvious tropes that we often associate with the genre. It takes a lot of work to create something that has some novel elements (since we are beyond the point where we should expect every horror film to be entirely innovative – some of the best works are actually those which reignite older conversations in a new and exciting way), while also drawing on some more familiar elements, in this case discussions around identity and desire, which should resonate quite deeply for many viewers. The core of the film is an in-depth exploration of the fear and longing that comes with existing outside society’s idealistic constraints, and how it can sometimes manifest as a heavy, destructive burden from which escape seems futile. It’s not always consistent, and some of the scenes do certainly seem to exist more to shock than to challenge, but it is all ultimately part of the harrowing and dense layer of cultural commentary that populate this film, making it so incredibly compelling and deeply moving in ways that are nothing if not wholeheartedly surprising.