‘Leviticus’ review: Marks the arrival of another major new horror voice

In Australian writer-director Adrian Chiarella’s knotty roller coaster of a feature debut “Leviticus,” about a demon tormenting a pair of queer teenage boys, the fear is more insidious than the external threat of a violent bigot or shunning parent.

In an abandoned mill in their blighted industrial town, quiet new kid Naim (Joe Bird) and brash hunk Ryan (Stacy Clausen) allow a friendly, mischievous connection to turn into something more. But when Naim later secretly observes his new crush fiercely locking lips with another classmate, Hunter (Jeremy Blewitt), son of a leader in the tight-knit church that Naim’s single mom (Mia Wasikowska) just joined, hurt gets the better of Naim’s instincts and he secretly informs on the pair.

The church’s punishment, however, delivered in front of the congregants, is an eerie ritual performed by a gaunt, severe visitor (Nicholas Hope). Called a “deliverance healer,” his fire-and-brimstone method — making incarnate the title’s Biblical book, regularly used to justify anti-LGBTQ viewpoints — leave Ryan and Hunter writhing in agony. Afterward, Naim, sensing he might have unwittingly set into motion something awful, notices bizarre behavior in the stricken-looking Ryan. When they try to furtively rekindle their passion, it becomes violently clear they are not alone. Or even, it seems, themselves.

The feeling that nowhere is safe is a durable horror concept, the backbone behind such classics as “Nightmare on Elm Street” and “It Follows.” In “Leviticus,” which is expertly paced by editor Nick Fenton, it comes with a flair for open-space unease and unexpected claustrophobia that puts director Chiarella in a long line of savvy Australian mood-setters like Peter Weir and Fred Schepisi. These filmmakers knew how to fold tactile dread into a worthy narrative, rather than treat genre as if it were a kit with instructions.

But most urgently and bleakly, Chiarella is giving religious-based conversion therapy its devilish due as a warping of the soul designed to sow distrust in one’s own desires. He’s careful, however, not to tell a tale that would speak to homophobes. As distressing as their circumstance is, Naim and Ryan are unmistakably positioned as heroic lovers, not victims-to-be. Chiarella takes time between bouts of danger to show affection and intimacy that, in defiance of teen-slasher formula, isn’t immediately penalized with sadism. But their fraught relationship will decidedly keep you nervous, so score one for multilayered storytelling.

Points, too, for the solid casting, from the leads’ tricky pivoting from openness to caginess, to the criminally underseen Wasikowska, who navigates maternal complexities of worry and compassion that confound easy pigeonholing. If anything, the movie could have used more of her, although it’s better overall that “Leviticus” prioritizes Naim and Ryan as queer protagonists caught in a chilling loop of escape and reunion. We already know what’s out there, ready to do harm. This movie’s nail-biting, sorrowful power comes from what internalized destruction looks like.

In Australian writer-director Adrian Chiarella’s knotty roller coaster of a feature debut “Leviticus,” about a demon tormenting a pair of queer teenage boys, the fear is more insidious than the external threat of a violent bigot or shunning parent.

In an abandoned mill in their blighted industrial town, quiet new kid Naim (Joe Bird) and brash hunk Ryan (Stacy Clausen) allow a friendly, mischievous connection to turn into something more. But when Naim later secretly observes his new crush fiercely locking lips with another classmate, Hunter (Jeremy Blewitt), son of a leader in the tight-knit church that Naim’s single mom (Mia Wasikowska) just joined, hurt gets the better of Naim’s instincts and he secretly informs on the pair.

The church’s punishment, however, delivered in front of the congregants, is an eerie ritual performed by a gaunt, severe visitor (Nicholas Hope). Called a “deliverance healer,” his fire-and-brimstone method — making incarnate the title’s Biblical book, regularly used to justify anti-LGBTQ viewpoints — leave Ryan and Hunter writhing in agony. Afterward, Naim, sensing he might have unwittingly set into motion something awful, notices bizarre behavior in the stricken-looking Ryan. When they try to furtively rekindle their passion, it becomes violently clear they are not alone. Or even, it seems, themselves.

The feeling that nowhere is safe is a durable horror concept, the backbone behind such classics as “Nightmare on Elm Street” and “It Follows.” In “Leviticus,” which is expertly paced by editor Nick Fenton, it comes with a flair for open-space unease and unexpected claustrophobia that puts director Chiarella in a long line of savvy Australian mood-setters like Peter Weir and Fred Schepisi. These filmmakers knew how to fold tactile dread into a worthy narrative, rather than treat genre as if it were a kit with instructions.

But most urgently and bleakly, Chiarella is giving religious-based conversion therapy its devilish due as a warping of the soul designed to sow distrust in one’s own desires. He’s careful, however, not to tell a tale that would speak to homophobes. As distressing as their circumstance is, Naim and Ryan are unmistakably positioned as heroic lovers, not victims-to-be. Chiarella takes time between bouts of danger to show affection and intimacy that, in defiance of teen-slasher formula, isn’t immediately penalized with sadism. But their fraught relationship will decidedly keep you nervous, so score one for multilayered storytelling.

Points, too, for the solid casting, from the leads’ tricky pivoting from openness to caginess, to the criminally underseen Wasikowska, who navigates maternal complexities of worry and compassion that confound easy pigeonholing. If anything, the movie could have used more of her, although it’s better overall that “Leviticus” prioritizes Naim and Ryan as queer protagonists caught in a chilling loop of escape and reunion. We already know what’s out there, ready to do harm. This movie’s nail-biting, sorrowful power comes from what internalized destruction looks like.

In Australian writer-director Adrian Chiarella’s knotty roller coaster of a feature debut “Leviticus,” about a demon tormenting a pair of queer teenage boys, the fear is more insidious than the external threat of a violent bigot or shunning parent.

In an abandoned mill in their blighted industrial town, quiet new kid Naim (Joe Bird) and brash hunk Ryan (Stacy Clausen) allow a friendly, mischievous connection to turn into something more. But when Naim later secretly observes his new crush fiercely locking lips with another classmate, Hunter (Jeremy Blewitt), son of a leader in the tight-knit church that Naim’s single mom (Mia Wasikowska) just joined, hurt gets the better of Naim’s instincts and he secretly informs on the pair.

The church’s punishment, however, delivered in front of the congregants, is an eerie ritual performed by a gaunt, severe visitor (Nicholas Hope). Called a “deliverance healer,” his fire-and-brimstone method — making incarnate the title’s Biblical book, regularly used to justify anti-LGBTQ viewpoints — leave Ryan and Hunter writhing in agony. Afterward, Naim, sensing he might have unwittingly set into motion something awful, notices bizarre behavior in the stricken-looking Ryan. When they try to furtively rekindle their passion, it becomes violently clear they are not alone. Or even, it seems, themselves.

The feeling that nowhere is safe is a durable horror concept, the backbone behind such classics as “Nightmare on Elm Street” and “It Follows.” In “Leviticus,” which is expertly paced by editor Nick Fenton, it comes with a flair for open-space unease and unexpected claustrophobia that puts director Chiarella in a long line of savvy Australian mood-setters like Peter Weir and Fred Schepisi. These filmmakers knew how to fold tactile dread into a worthy narrative, rather than treat genre as if it were a kit with instructions.

But most urgently and bleakly, Chiarella is giving religious-based conversion therapy its devilish due as a warping of the soul designed to sow distrust in one’s own desires. He’s careful, however, not to tell a tale that would speak to homophobes. As distressing as their circumstance is, Naim and Ryan are unmistakably positioned as heroic lovers, not victims-to-be. Chiarella takes time between bouts of danger to show affection and intimacy that, in defiance of teen-slasher formula, isn’t immediately penalized with sadism. But their fraught relationship will decidedly keep you nervous, so score one for multilayered storytelling.

Points, too, for the solid casting, from the leads’ tricky pivoting from openness to caginess, to the criminally underseen Wasikowska, who navigates maternal complexities of worry and compassion that confound easy pigeonholing. If anything, the movie could have used more of her, although it’s better overall that “Leviticus” prioritizes Naim and Ryan as queer protagonists caught in a chilling loop of escape and reunion. We already know what’s out there, ready to do harm. This movie’s nail-biting, sorrowful power comes from what internalized destruction looks like.

In Australian writer-director Adrian Chiarella’s knotty roller coaster of a feature debut “Leviticus,” about a demon tormenting a pair of queer teenage boys, the fear is more insidious than the external threat of a violent bigot or shunning parent.

In an abandoned mill in their blighted industrial town, quiet new kid Naim (Joe Bird) and brash hunk Ryan (Stacy Clausen) allow a friendly, mischievous connection to turn into something more. But when Naim later secretly observes his new crush fiercely locking lips with another classmate, Hunter (Jeremy Blewitt), son of a leader in the tight-knit church that Naim’s single mom (Mia Wasikowska) just joined, hurt gets the better of Naim’s instincts and he secretly informs on the pair.

The church’s punishment, however, delivered in front of the congregants, is an eerie ritual performed by a gaunt, severe visitor (Nicholas Hope). Called a “deliverance healer,” his fire-and-brimstone method — making incarnate the title’s Biblical book, regularly used to justify anti-LGBTQ viewpoints — leave Ryan and Hunter writhing in agony. Afterward, Naim, sensing he might have unwittingly set into motion something awful, notices bizarre behavior in the stricken-looking Ryan. When they try to furtively rekindle their passion, it becomes violently clear they are not alone. Or even, it seems, themselves.

The feeling that nowhere is safe is a durable horror concept, the backbone behind such classics as “Nightmare on Elm Street” and “It Follows.” In “Leviticus,” which is expertly paced by editor Nick Fenton, it comes with a flair for open-space unease and unexpected claustrophobia that puts director Chiarella in a long line of savvy Australian mood-setters like Peter Weir and Fred Schepisi. These filmmakers knew how to fold tactile dread into a worthy narrative, rather than treat genre as if it were a kit with instructions.

But most urgently and bleakly, Chiarella is giving religious-based conversion therapy its devilish due as a warping of the soul designed to sow distrust in one’s own desires. He’s careful, however, not to tell a tale that would speak to homophobes. As distressing as their circumstance is, Naim and Ryan are unmistakably positioned as heroic lovers, not victims-to-be. Chiarella takes time between bouts of danger to show affection and intimacy that, in defiance of teen-slasher formula, isn’t immediately penalized with sadism. But their fraught relationship will decidedly keep you nervous, so score one for multilayered storytelling.

Points, too, for the solid casting, from the leads’ tricky pivoting from openness to caginess, to the criminally underseen Wasikowska, who navigates maternal complexities of worry and compassion that confound easy pigeonholing. If anything, the movie could have used more of her, although it’s better overall that “Leviticus” prioritizes Naim and Ryan as queer protagonists caught in a chilling loop of escape and reunion. We already know what’s out there, ready to do harm. This movie’s nail-biting, sorrowful power comes from what internalized destruction looks like.