Leviticus Movie Review: A Haunting Biblical Thriller

Set against the dusty, claustrophobic backdrop of a fundamentalist religious enclave (the exact location is never specified, but the painted-on denim and fire-and-brimstone rhetoric feel distinctly late-90s Midwest), the film centers on Naim Reid (Joe Bird) and Ryan Whelan (Stacy Clausen). They are neighbors, best friends, and - in the privacy of a barn loft or a stolen hour by the creek - something more. Their bond is a secret kept from their families and the Deliverance Healer (Nicholas Hope), a terrifyingly calm figure who leads evening revivals warning of the “serpent that slithers into the hearts of the unruly.”

When the two boys confess their feelings, something shifts. A presence begins to stalk them, appearing as a perfect, impossibly alluring copy of the other. At first, it’s a fantasy - a version of your crush who says everything you want to hear. But the entity is hungry, and its affection curdles into possessive violence. The boys realize the only way to survive is to sever their connection, which means rejecting the very person they love, feeding the entity’s power with their own denial. Their escape is not a footrace through the woods; it is a psychological gauntlet where every step toward safety feels like a betrayal of the heart.

Chiarella, who also wrote the screenplay, understands something crucial about fear: the scariest monster is the one you cannot stop loving. The entity isn’t a grotesque demon - it’s a mirror, a gorgeous, soft-spoken doppelganger with your lover’s smile and a terrifying glint in its eyes. The film’s horror is deeply queer in its construction, tapping into the very real terror of having your most private, tender feelings twisted into something predatory. It’s a metaphor that never feels heavy-handed; instead, it’s woven into the film’s visual language. The boys are constantly framed in mirrors, through rain-streaked windows, or in the periphery of out-of-focus shots - always reflecting, always being watched.

Bird and Clausen are the engine that drives the film. Bird’s Naim is all coiled tension, a boy who flinches at his own shadow but finds a momentary, radiant bravery in Ryan’s presence. Clausen’s Ryan, meanwhile, is the more recklessly passionate of the two, his desire a weapon he doesn’t know how to wield. Their chemistry is electric, and the film’s quieter moments - a hand brushing a shoulder, a shared cigarette in the dark - are as nerve-wracking as the chase sequences. When the entity appears, it’s the actors’ own faces twisted into subtle, wrong expressions (a too-wide smile, a too-slow blink) that make the skin crawl. The sound design deserves special mention: the low, harmonic drone that signifies the entity’s presence sounds less like a score and more like the humming of a malevolent hive.

The script isn’t without its stumbles. Mia Wasikowska, wasted in the underwritten role of Naim’s alcoholic mother Arlene, gets a few scenes of drunken vulnerability but is largely sidelined. The film’s third act shifts from visceral horror into a more abstract, quasi-religious fever dream that may lose some viewers looking for a concrete resolution. The ending, in particular, is open to interpretation - a choice that feels thematically correct but might frustrate those accustomed to genre closure. Still, the imperfections feel like the cost of ambition. This is a film that wants to say something about faith, desire, and the price of authenticity, and it says it with a poetic, brutal clarity.

Pros

• Bird and Clausen’s raw, emotionally naked performances are phenomenal.
• The central conceit - a monster that is a physical manifestation of desire - is brilliantly realized.
• A suffocating, dread-soaked atmosphere maintained from the first frame to the last.
• Genuinely unsettling practical effects; the doppelganger makeup is subtle and uncanny.
• The romance feels authentic and crucial, not just a plot device.

Cons

• The supporting cast, particularly Wasikowska, is given criminally short shrift.
• The abstract third act may feel incoherent or pretentious to some.
• Pacing is glacial in the middle section, with a few redundant dream-sequence scares.
• The film’s thematic ambiguity might leave audiences wanting more concrete answers.

Leviticus is a haunting, thorny gem. It’s a love story that terrifies and a horror film that breaks your heart. While its elliptical storytelling and limited scope will alienate some, its fearless commitment to its vision - and the heartbreaking authenticity of its two leads - makes it one of the boldest and most memorable genre films of 2026. It’s not a film you enjoy; it’s a film you survive, and then you’ll think about it for days. For those who appreciate horror that asks questions instead of just delivering scares, this is an essential watch. For everyone else, it’s a fascinating, flawed experiment that confirms Chiarella as a director to watch very, very closely.