Leviticus Review

Although Jennifer Kent’s debut film, The Babadook, brought international attention to the Australian horror scene, little would come of it until nearly a decade later. Talk to Me kicked off the wave we’re currently riding, for better or for worse (mostly better). That’s fortunate for writer/director Adrian Chiarella, for while the involvement of Mia Wasikowska (in her first film in three years) made sure it would get a wider release, the recent track record of filmmakers from Down Under ensured it would get some heat regardless. Add in a queer coming-of-age story and a heavy-handed allegory for the effects of conversion therapy and sanctioned hate, and you have the makings of a film certain to find an audience, even if it has to wait until streaming to do so.

Speaking of Talk to Me, Joe Bird plays our confusingly named protagonist, Naim, whose name I could have sworn was “Name” until the cries of his mother (Wasikowska) near the end enunciate it as two syllables. Naim has been sneaking around with Ryan (Stacy Clausen), breaking into abandoned buildings and making out (and more), fumbling their ways through finding themselves, sexually and otherwise. Their parents are part of the same insular Christian community (cult?), which Naim wields like a weapon in jealousy and hurt upon discovering Ryan making out with the preacher’s son, Hunter (Jeremy Blewitt). A faith healer (Nicholas Hope) is brought in to perform a ritual “cleansing” them of their homosexuality in front of the whole congregation, including a bashful Naim. The crowd’s chants turn to terror as both boys begin to writhe on the ground before being lifted into the air, their necks compressing and their eyes bulging, as if being strangled by some unseen force.

Unfortunately for them, that’s just the beginning. Naim is disturbed by Ryan’s vacant stare at service and school, and so begins to follow him. What he sees is even more upsetting. Ryan excitedly talking to and kissing the absence of a person beside him, before he’s once again attacked. As Ryan runs away, he admonishes Naim to leave him alone, screaming as he runs away that his assailant looks like Naim. The implication is clear; the witch doctor’s curse works by saddling you with a spirit that assumes the form of your crush/lover, then traumatizes you until even the thought of them is enough to trigger a breakdown.

This should be the setup for a host of anxiety-inducing, harrowing sequences, ones in which these boys (and eventually, our protagonist) are never safe, no matter how familiar or friendly their surroundings. But in the interest of addressing the elevated suicide rates of queer youth due to societally-induced shame, the attacks only happen when the target is alone. Well, sort of. While that’s definitively stated, and the first handful come while the victim at least thinks they’re alone, the doppelganger begins to show up any old time they please. Sometimes, it has the desired effect of making you feel the same paranoia experienced by Naim and Ryan. Others, it highlights just how shoddily held together the screenplay is, failing to establish enough of a story structure to play out the handful of thoughts it contains.

There are so many hinted at plot threads that seem intended to flesh out the details of the experience of Naim and his mother, maybe even to explain how they got here, but they fail to cohere into anything particularly meaningful. The visuals repeatedly hammer the town’s hollowed out, desperate character, with the most notable feature the oft-seen gas flare in the middle-distance, and numerous long, languid shots of a tangle of power lines. There’s a single allusion to the death of Naim’s father, but no indication of what that changed (save for their move). We get deep enough into the Christian sect to become curious about it and its practitioners and how Naim’s mother found it, but they’re just a device to unleash the curse. Much of what the minor characters do are naked contrivances to move the plot along, and their clunky realization breaks the immersion. The pure economy of each of these constructions lays bare their function, failing to seamlessly integrate them into the larger story.

On the horror front, Leviticus has more success. There’s one well-earned jump scare that absolutely got me, and there’s an intensity and intimacy to the violence that makes it more upsetting, if not exactly scary. While the opening scene makes clear the general shape of the climax to come, some of the imagery involved will nonetheless leave their mark (especially in light of the denouement). Some of its attempts swing into rote or goofy, and it’s not helped by the inevitable comparisons to another wildly successful, low-budget horror film, as it continues its Cinderella run. But it hits its mark enough to avoid complete embarrassment.

In its bones, it’s spinning all these plates to tell a story about the importance of finding your own community for survival, especially when those claiming to support you turn towards some ill-conceived notion of “protection” instead. That doesn’t make it easy, however. It still involves trust, and the risk of being hurt. It involves sharing a part of yourself the world may be hostile to, and thus making yourself vulnerable. But as is clear in every moment of solace shared by Naim and Ryan, the comfort and warmth and love that comes from doing so is a feeling unlike any other.

That’s what makes Chiarella’s screenplay so frustrating. He landed on a solid conceit, and a great approach to portraying what this well-trodden idea would mean to queer characters, but was unable to elevate it past its scaffolding. As such, Leviticus exemplifies the importance of execution, leaving each scene feeling like a let down compared to what could have been.