Hollywood Buzzes as “Leviticus” Slashes Through Conversion Therapy Taboos

Olivia Bennett, 1/25/2026 A brutal, brilliantly unvarnished queer horror, “Leviticus” drags conversion therapy out of the shadows and into the supernatural, where love is as deadly as the monsters it conjures. Bleak, bold, and unflinching—an ice-cold antidote to pastel optimism. It’s not here to comfort, but to haunt.

On the surface, Chiarella’s debut could have slipped quietly into the overstuffed file marked “trauma-porn.” But there’s a chill in this film’s veins—a sharpness, refusing either the easy drama of after-school specials or the mute horror of faceless monsters. At its core? A premise that can’t help but unnerve: two boys, Niam (Joe Bird) and Ryan (Stacy Clausen), fumble open a fragile romance in a community swaddled in piety, suspicion clinging to every pew and lamplight. Hope, here, wears a borrowed suit; the adults, headed up by Mia Wasikowska’s unsettling matriarch, seize the boys' burgeoning connection not with understanding, but with holy terror. What begins as exorcism of so-called demons sharpens into the attempted cleansing of desire—evicting not spirits, but selves.

It’s a bleak kind of brilliance: conversion therapy recast as supernatural horror, though what’s truly frightening has nothing to do with the paranormal at all. Instead, “Leviticus” points the camera at love itself, twisting what’s intimate until it’s monstrous. The doppelgängers that prowl the boys' world—loved ones returned as threats, romance soured into menace—aren’t exactly subtle. Nor should they be. “Death comes bearing the face of the person you love.” Sometimes a metaphor needs to swing a hammer rather than drop a veil.

With pop culture’s current obsession for soft-lit, effervescent queerness—“Heartstopper,” “Love, Simon,” the usual suspects—there’s something almost necessary about a movie that refuses to offer a blanket of reassurance. It’s the ice water to 2025’s persistent pastel optimism. “Leviticus” puts to rest the myth that coming out is small matter, a mere passage to adulthood like getting a driver’s license or finally moving out of your childhood bedroom. For plenty of young people, especially outside the urban centers where rainbow flags flutter next to oat milk cafés, it remains dangerous terrain. Chiarella’s story drags the realism out from underneath the Hallmark rug.

The terror, in this film, is personal. Watch closely: the quiet panic in Niam and Ryan’s shared glance across a lunchroom says more than any CGI ghoul could ever hope to. Bird and Clausen deliver raw, aching performances, their chemistry more believable in small, vulnerable moments than in any crisis scene. There’s a tenderness on display—fleeting, yes, but every bit as powerful as the violence shadowing their steps.

Supporting turns stand out, particularly Mia Wasikowska’s performance. As the town’s unofficial spiritual guardian, she oscillates between compassion and monstrous control, gaslighting at a level that puts even Hollywood’s worst fictional mothers to shame. That particular delicacy—where the abuser acts “out of love”—lands with a sickening plausibility.

Technically speaking, the film is as tight as a minimalist’s grip on their monochrome palette. Tyson Perkins, the cinematographer, boxes the characters in with visuals that evoke claustrophobia and heartbreak in equal measure. At times, the screen almost seems to shrink. Sound designer Emma Bortignon ratchets up unease with every hollow prayer and creaking floorboard—editing in more dread than some horror flicks squeeze into their entire runtime. Jed Kurzel’s score walks a high wire between mournful and dizzying, mirroring the film’s refusal to choose between heartbreak and full-tilt panic.

It’s true, “Leviticus” tips its hat to genre predecessors—there’s more than a hint of “It Follows” in the stalking, a finger pointed at “The Thing” for its trust-no-one paranoia. But the emotional fallout? That’s all its own. The supernatural mechanics aren’t always clear—then again, ambiguity is so often the currency of nightmares. The aftermath of one mistake, one cracked loyalty, ripples outward. With each misstep, claustrophobia tightens.

What makes “Leviticus” linger—like the smell of old incense or the chill that never quite leaves the bones—isn’t just the horror of what’s been done, but the quiet insistence that sometimes escape is the only winning move. The film doesn’t offer fix-it moments, no grand gestures of reconciliation; instead, it tilts toward a grim heroism. Cutting ties, it suggests, can be an act of survival. Not cowardice, but courage. Some families can’t be mended; some homes, not worth returning to.

In a cinematic year already brimming with stories that end in photo-ready triumph, “Leviticus” is the rare film that refuses the vacant optimism. It leaves viewers with a shiver and a sour taste—an echo of connection, cut short but never quite vanquished. Perhaps there’s something hopeful in the idea that, even when love gets twisted, courage can find a foothold. In 2025, when so much feels forced into a mold of manufactured hope, it’s oddly refreshing to find a film willing to leave the shimmer behind.

Grim, unsparing, yet fiercely honest, “Leviticus” sidesteps the pastel and offers something closer to the truth—a bitter tonic, but sometimes, that’s exactly what the moment demands.

There are places where hope disappears, not with a bang but a whimper—Victoria, Australia, for one. Adrian Chiarella’s “Leviticus” plants itself in this nowhere-land, a backdrop so devoid of color it nearly begs for a patina of irony. Somehow, this isn't the start of some gritty coming-of-age drama searching for a ray of light. It’s much more cutting. In “Leviticus,” the setting won’t offer an escape hatch; instead, it presses in around every character, a silent accomplice to the town’s suffocating ethos. There’s no sugar-coating the beige. Here, faith isn’t the velvet cordoning off redemption—it’s a cage, and the film delights in rattling the bars.On the surface, Chiarella’s debut could have slipped quietly into the overstuffed file marked “trauma-porn.” But there’s a chill in this film’s veins—a sharpness, refusing either the easy drama of after-school specials or the mute horror of faceless monsters. At its core? A premise that can’t help but unnerve: two boys, Niam (Joe Bird) and Ryan (Stacy Clausen), fumble open a fragile romance in a community swaddled in piety, suspicion clinging to every pew and lamplight. Hope, here, wears a borrowed suit; the adults, headed up by Mia Wasikowska’s unsettling matriarch, seize the boys' burgeoning connection not with understanding, but with holy terror. What begins as exorcism of so-called demons sharpens into the attempted cleansing of desire—evicting not spirits, but selves.It’s a bleak kind of brilliance: conversion therapy recast as supernatural horror, though what’s truly frightening has nothing to do with the paranormal at all. Instead, “Leviticus” points the camera at love itself, twisting what’s intimate until it’s monstrous. The doppelgängers that prowl the boys' world—loved ones returned as threats, romance soured into menace—aren’t exactly subtle. Nor should they be. “Death comes bearing the face of the person you love.” Sometimes a metaphor needs to swing a hammer rather than drop a veil.With pop culture’s current obsession for soft-lit, effervescent queerness—“Heartstopper,” “Love, Simon,” the usual suspects—there’s something almost necessary about a movie that refuses to offer a blanket of reassurance. It’s the ice water to 2025’s persistent pastel optimism. “Leviticus” puts to rest the myth that coming out is small matter, a mere passage to adulthood like getting a driver’s license or finally moving out of your childhood bedroom. For plenty of young people, especially outside the urban centers where rainbow flags flutter next to oat milk cafés, it remains dangerous terrain. Chiarella’s story drags the realism out from underneath the Hallmark rug.The terror, in this film, is personal. Watch closely: the quiet panic in Niam and Ryan’s shared glance across a lunchroom says more than any CGI ghoul could ever hope to. Bird and Clausen deliver raw, aching performances, their chemistry more believable in small, vulnerable moments than in any crisis scene. There’s a tenderness on display—fleeting, yes, but every bit as powerful as the violence shadowing their steps.Supporting turns stand out, particularly Mia Wasikowska’s performance. As the town’s unofficial spiritual guardian, she oscillates between compassion and monstrous control, gaslighting at a level that puts even Hollywood’s worst fictional mothers to shame. That particular delicacy—where the abuser acts “out of love”—lands with a sickening plausibility.Technically speaking, the film is as tight as a minimalist’s grip on their monochrome palette. Tyson Perkins, the cinematographer, boxes the characters in with visuals that evoke claustrophobia and heartbreak in equal measure. At times, the screen almost seems to shrink. Sound designer Emma Bortignon ratchets up unease with every hollow prayer and creaking floorboard—editing in more dread than some horror flicks squeeze into their entire runtime. Jed Kurzel’s score walks a high wire between mournful and dizzying, mirroring the film’s refusal to choose between heartbreak and full-tilt panic.It’s true, “Leviticus” tips its hat to genre predecessors—there’s more than a hint of “It Follows” in the stalking, a finger pointed at “The Thing” for its trust-no-one paranoia. But the emotional fallout? That’s all its own. The supernatural mechanics aren’t always clear—then again, ambiguity is so often the currency of nightmares. The aftermath of one mistake, one cracked loyalty, ripples outward. With each misstep, claustrophobia tightens.What makes “Leviticus” linger—like the smell of old incense or the chill that never quite leaves the bones—isn’t just the horror of what’s been done, but the quiet insistence that sometimes escape is the only winning move. The film doesn’t offer fix-it moments, no grand gestures of reconciliation; instead, it tilts toward a grim heroism. Cutting ties, it suggests, can be an act of survival. Not cowardice, but courage. Some families can’t be mended; some homes, not worth returning to.In a cinematic year already brimming with stories that end in photo-ready triumph, “Leviticus” is the rare film that refuses the vacant optimism. It leaves viewers with a shiver and a sour taste—an echo of connection, cut short but never quite vanquished. Perhaps there’s something hopeful in the idea that, even when love gets twisted, courage can find a foothold. In 2025, when so much feels forced into a mold of manufactured hope, it’s oddly refreshing to find a film willing to leave the shimmer behind.Grim, unsparing, yet fiercely honest, “Leviticus” sidesteps the pastel and offers something closer to the truth—a bitter tonic, but sometimes, that’s exactly what the moment demands.