BEWARE: SPOILERS
A teenage boy receives an impassioned and distinctly homosexual handjob while riding home on a public bus.
The woman sitting next to me in the theater audibly utters, “Gross.”
Maybe she means that receiving sexual favors on a bus is gross and trashy. Who knows what kind of bacteria is crawling within the upholstery?
Maybe she is putting herself in the position of one of the unknowing passengers sitting ahead of the couple in question, ignorant of the salacious exchange happening behind them.
Or maybe she is just a homophobe. If so, then fuck her.
In any case, grow up, Karen. People get handjobs on public transportation.
Anyway, this review is about Leviticus.
During this year’s Overlook Film Festival, I felt downright spoiled. All the movies I chose to see were impressive, brimming with passion, and wholly original. I don’t think I’ve ever been outright upset or resentful of anything I’ve seen at Overlook, but I do think this was a standout year in terms of the lineup. Just ahead of the pack, however, was an entry I thought was an objectively perfect viewing experience: Leviticus. Directed by Adrian Chiarella, this movie has been receiving high praise on the festival circuit, and it was one of the more anticipated films on my list this year.
The film revolves around the romance of two teenage boys, Naim (Joe Bird) and Ryan (Stacy Clausen), as they are “cleansed” by their religious relatives in a sinister exorcism. Instead of eradicating their homosexual desires, however, they are hunted by doppelgangers of each other who lure them into a sense of ease and ecstasy before attacking. The couple must decide if distance should be the key to survival, or if they should risk it all for their love.
Leviticus is a bleak film. The setting is de-saturated, sparse, brittle, and suffocated by the cold presence of industry. The mood is pensive and withdrawn. It is very difficult to experience any kind of comfort or safety, even—maybe especially—when the protagonists are surrounded by others. Even the characters’ homes feel isolated, barely lived-in.
The actors’ performances are poignant and raw. Everyone feels as if they are trying to desperately break from a loneliness that hounds their heels at every step. Naim, Ryan, and Hunter, hurt each other bodily to bridge the chasm of physical touch between performative masculinity and sexual vulnerability. Naim’s mother (Mia Wasikowska) looks for closure in the wake of her husband’s death, and she will protect the emotional peace religion provides her even at the cost of her son’s well-being.
The nature of the entity haunting Naim and Ryan suggests they can be safe if they do not wander off alone. But in being surrounded by others, they feel they cannot truly be themselves. This barrier of separation, of not wanting to out themselves to their family or peers, is all too relatable to the average queer audience, and it’s present in the story even before the boys’ so-called cleansing rituals. This barrier isn’t anything new—it’s the simple, harsh reality of life as a queer person.
However, their yearning need for intimacy is what sets up our characters for the most romantic scene in the film: when Ryan gives Naim a handjob on the public bus. They cannot be alone, because being alone means being preyed upon by the monster. So the two chase bliss wherever they can find it, if only to assure each other that their bond is honest, real, and worth the risk.
Queer activists have fought and continue to fight for a better, brighter future for the LGBTQ+ community, but this does not necessarily mean we have that much less to fear for ourselves and the people we love. The obstacles of being anything other than straight or cis have never really gone away, and it’s difficult to imagine a future where such aggression has disappeared completely.
For Naim and Ryan, their families are too entrenched in certain religious doctrines to accept them as they are. Another place, another time, maybe even another set of beliefs might have saved them. But these hostilities have and will always exist in some form. It’s this layer of realism attached to the threat that makes this movie truly terrifying. Whenever Naim is lured into a sense of comfort and affection, you want it to be real, you want him to be okay for just a moment. And, of course, the movie takes advantage of these lulls to rip the rug out from under its characters and its audience.
While I was watching Leviticus, I was thinking about the entity in terms of a movie monster. Obviously, it’s a metaphor, a placeholder for the inherent shame placed upon queer individuals either by society or religion, especially so-called “conversion” camps. But the entity is monstrous enough to wonder about how it works, how it interacts with the world, and if it has any weaknesses. It is eventually revealed that the entity will recoil from fire, a reference to the cleansing fire which bore its existence during the initial ritual. As the apparition wearing Ryan’s face writhed in the burning building’s flames, I wondered if this were the end. We found the thing that scares the entity. If it is consumed by flames, does this destroy it?
And just as quickly as I asked myself that question, I arrived at the answer: no, of course not. Of course the danger is not gone. The danger is born out of hatred and hostility for Naim and Ryan’s alleged “sinful desires.” I know they are not sinful, but the danger does not care what I or the protagonists know is right. This is a very real danger which exists strictly because Naim and Ryan love each other, and it will not go away as long as their desires exist. That is the nature of living outside of the norm—the danger is out there, somewhere, sometime.
This is a grim reality, illustrated by the stalking, watchful presence of an invisible doppelganger. In spite of all this, however, the ending is triumphant in its own way.
As Naim and Ryan settle in for the trip ahead of them, Naim catches a glimpse of the fake Ryan who has been attacking him, walking towards the road. Naim sees it, but does not say or do anything. He simply leans towards Ryan, taking comfort in the presence of his real lover.
What I love most about Leviticus is the story’s genuine and harmonious marriage to its own themes. Its purpose and intentions are clear, and fall seamlessly into the greater plot elements.
We have the immense privilege of living in a renaissance of the horror genre. More filmmakers want to be involved in horror to tell great stories. More audiences are paying attention to horror movies. There’s also an innate pressure to tell worthwhile stories on par with The Babadook, Get Out, and Hereditary, movies perceived as being narratively superior because they cut to the heart of something important. (Films in the horror genre have always taken on lofty themes and ideas. This is nothing new to the genre, but that’s a discussion for another time!)
But Leviticus’s monster, its characters, its visuals, and its story are all unified in purpose without feeling too contrived. It isn’t hitting the audience over the head with its meaning, because its meaning is so intrinsically tied to what the characters—and real queer people—are experiencing.
Most inspiring is the conclusion, which reminds the audience that the happiness of falling in love, honestly and fully, can be worth all the hardship it brings.