In Leviticus, now playing in cinemas, queer desire is something to be feared; same-sex love leads only to pain and eventual death, and no simple escape routes are present. Leviticus is a film about the true horrors of religious fundamentalism, conversion practices and community oppression.
Sacrifice and atonement, sin and redemption, morals and behaviours – the book of Leviticus has it all. The book is, in essence, an instruction manual full of rituals, moral instructions, and behavioural expectations, some of which continue to be used today, for example, “Love your neighbour as yourself”, while others, such as “Your male and female slaves are to come from the nations around you; from them you may buy slaves,” are now viewed as deeply disturbing.
The book’s views on slavery, the treatment of women and those who have disabilities have long seen Leviticus used as a tool to oppress and control, as religious groups hand-pick specific lines of text while often ignoring others. One line in particular has been used throughout history to persecute gay men: Leviticus 18:22: “You shall not lie with a male as with a woman; it is an abomination.”
As with most biblical texts, this has been embellished and changed over centuries to suit changing religious beliefs and practices, and in some texts it now talks about homosexuality, a word not introduced until 1869. This one verse from a text, possibly written sometime between 1440–1400 BC and continually adapted from the Persian period to the present, is often used as a religious justification for conversion practices. Just imagine if the statement on slavery above were still used as justification for enslaving men, women and children today or if “For anyone who curses his father or his mother shall surely be put to death…” was enacted on every teenager who has ever sworn at their parents in anger!
Yet, within many religious communities, that one sentence continues to see parents, churches, ministers, and families not only oppress those who are, or are suspected of being gay, but openly condone physical and psychological abuse in an attempt to change them. The results are horrifying. Yet on film, horror as a genre has rarely been used to explore the nightmare of conversion practices. But that is changing, and following They/Them (2022), writer-director Adrian Chiarella’s Leviticus places horror centre stage in his impressive debut feature.
In Leviticus, queer desire is something to be feared; same-sex love leads only to pain and death, and no simple escape routes are present. Leviticus is a film about the true horrors of religious fundamentalism, conversion practices and community oppression.
Leviticus opens in a small, industrial Australian town where Naim (Joe Bird) and Ryan (Stacy Clausen) are hanging out in an old, abandoned factory. This is the first time they have hung out together, although their paths have crossed in school. As with so many early gay encounters, it’s a brief bout of play-fighting that leads to a passionate yet nervous kiss. For Naim, it’s a kiss he has long dreamed of in a town where religion and isolation reign supreme. Could this be the start of a new life? One where love, tenderness and touch replace the cold, controlling and oppressive world around him?
When Naim spots Ryan kissing another boy, Hunter (Jeremy Blewitt), the son of his church leader, jealousy strikes, and he makes an instant, flawed decision that will have a devastating impact on all three boys. As the local preacher brings in an outside force to rid his son and Ryan of the gay ‘demon’ that now inhabits their bodies, the horrors of conversion practices and religious fundamentalism are laid bare.
What’s fascinating about Chiarella’s creative choices as this horror unfolds is the layered approach taken to exploring the ramifications, both personal, social and psychological, of attempting to change someone’s sexuality. Queer desire becomes a deadly and destructive force, a theme that isn’t new in queer horror; for example, A Nightmare on Elm Street Part 2 took a similar path, even if the creative team denied it for years. But in Leviticus, that deadly force is love and desire itself. Naim and Ryan will ultimately destroy each other if they give in to their sins.
Whereas A Nightmare on Elm Street Part 2 reflected upon gay panic and the fear of coming out in a society that painted gay men as sexual deviants, Leviticus reflects the hate and fear born from the AIDS epidemic, where the term “Gay Plague” was used widely, alongside discussions of moral punishment and gay love being a death sentence. This concept of “plague” directly shaped many conversion practices and beliefs from the mid-80s onwards, as a change-or-die message became central to religious attempts to convert. Conversion practices would seek to turn gay people against each other, encouraging a fear of a single touch having deadly results.
Anyone who has ever known someone who has been subjected to a conversion practice led by a church or religious group knows that the first change is the person’s removal from all social support and communication with anyone who is also gay. By isolating an individual, you make them vulnerable to influence. This is beautifully reflected in Naim and Ryan’s fears throughout Leviticus. They love each other, but religious intervention has also made them fear and doubt each other – and encouraged a belief that their love and desire will ultimately result in their death.
In avoiding the usual religious horror stereotypes, Chiarella has ultimately crafted something far more terrifying and real: a portrait of the lengths some people and communities will go to in attempting to convert a son, brother, friend or community member. That conversion attempt is never well-meaning; it’s cruel and rooted in prejudice – an abuse of power, position, and belief that causes significant harm.
Naim’s mother knows this and quietly confirms it when she reveals she knew what would happen to her son all along and that it was irreversible. Yet she shows no emotion, no sorrow for the pain inflicted on her son, just an unmovable and unchallengeable belief that “You shall not lie with a male as with a woman.” For her, like so many parents who subject their own children to the abuse of conversion practices, her choices are about her own values and beliefs, not her son’s. There is no love.
That’s what makes Leviticus terrifying and incredibly sad in equal measure: the unquestioning belief that words written somewhere between 1440–1400 BC are more important than love, and that those words give you the right to abuse, manipulate, and destroy the future of another person. In the end, Ryan and Naim’s only option is to run, a choice that continues to be a sad reality for far too many gay young people as they escape oppressive communities and destructive families, never to look back, knowing that if they stayed, their lives were over before they began.
Many will argue that things have changed, but around the world, so-called conversion practices continue unchallenged; gay people continue to be put to death for their love, and too many LGBTQ+ young people suffer abuse, both physical, sexual and psychological, daily.
The horrors of Leviticus are all too real, and they continue to thrive in far too many communities. Chiarella asks us to face that fact head-on as he dissects the horror of religious fundamentalism, conversion practices and community abuse through the journey of two boys who dared to challenge a single sentence from an ancient and deeply problematic scripture in the name of love.
Follow Us