Enemies-to-lovers is a common and often hot romance trope. But what if what makes you enemies is your love? 

Being raised queer and religious can be a minefield, as all your worth and goodness might be cast aside by your community because of who you desire. In such homophobic settings, queer people are told we must deny our desires or risk being ostracized, attacked, and damned. The new Australian horror movie Leviticus explores the agony of this experience through a supernatural horror story that thunders over a tale of first love. 

Australian writer/director Adrian Chiarella makes his sensational feature directorial debut with Leviticus, a title that refers to a book of the Bible in which homosexuality is declared an "abomination." However, rather than being a film that condemns the queer boys at its center, Leviticus empathizes with their yearning and the terror caused by the parents who should love them. Brewed with equal parts desire and dread, this Australian horror thriller explores how homophobia can be the real monster in the closet. 

Leviticus is a possession tale with a unique twist. 

Talk to Me's Joe Bird stars as Naim, a high school boy who's new to a town that's quiet, conservative, and deeply Christian. He has no friends, and is intrigued when a beautiful, curly-haired blonde boy named Ryan (Stacy Clausen) invites him to hang out. And before the afternoon is over, they've flirted, wrestled, and made out on the floor of an abandoned mill. 

Heated Rivalry fans will note a similar dynamic to Ilya and Shane, minus the hockey rivalry. Like Ilya, Ryan is cocky, showing his interest through playful barbs, and even some physical aggression. Similar to Shane, brunette Naim is excited by this muscled blonde's attention, even if he's not ready to recognize what that excitement might mean. But where the wildly popular TV show has being outed as a storm cloud that resolves relatively brightly, Leviticus goes dark, pitting the boys against each other. 

It all begins with a "deliverance healer," called to exorcise the evil out of the queer members of the church. The conversion ceremony is first conducted on Ryan and another boy. But before long, Naim is also subjected to this strange ritual. From then on, he is followed by a mysterious creature that looks and sounds like Ryan. But if they give into their desire for each other with a kiss, this Ryan lashes out, violently assaulting Naim. And he soon learns Ryan is being stalked by a doppelganger of Naim. In both cases, no one else can see their seductive assailants. No one — not the cops nor Naim's recently widowed mother (producer Mia Wasikowska) — believes him as he seeks salvation from this seeming demon. 

Leviticus awes with its ambiguity, but is ruthlessly scary.  

Surely, horror fans will point to It Follows as an inspiration point, as that film also dealt with a strange, stalking demon who is passed on by sexual contact. Both films certainly reflect the fear of sex and death common in horror. But where It Follows uses nude bodies to shock and repulse its audience, Leviticus only shows how Naim sees the demon — as Ryan, a handsome boy with lust in his eyes. This perspective urges audiences to understand what it is to look upon someone and both desire and fear them. This clever creature has no tells that suggest he is not Ryan, until he attacks. 

"This is what they wanted," the real Ryan seethes, "us to be scared of each other." And in this, Leviticus reveals its aching heart. Here are two boys falling in love. But their story becomes a nightmare, not because of wicked desires but because of a viciously conformative community that would rather see them dead than queer and happy. This revelation makes all the scenes that follow not just frightening but also stomach-churning. Naim desperately wants to reconnect to Ryan, the only person in this "shithole" who sees him for who he is and accepts him as he is. But because of this ritual, he can never be sure it's Ryan's eyes he's looking into or his kiss he's accepting, until the possibility of violence arises. 

By focusing on Naim's perspective exclusively, we too can't be certain of what's real. And one particular jump scare — which had me full-throated screaming — suggests that isolation is no answer either. But what to do when your community and your family reject you? This place is both home and not home. Chiarella reflects that through elegant choices in sight and sound. Cinematographer Tyson Perkins paints this small town in pale but warm hues of pinks, blues, and golds. This does not seem the kind of place where a teen boy would be ripped to pieces with a shrug from the community. But it is. Here, the score by Jed Kurzel bolsters this shudder-inducing truth, giving an eerie echo of percussion that sounds like a racing heart, running down a long, endless hallway. And yet…

Leviticus is defiant in its queer joy, despite the bleak setup. 

While Chiarella's script does follow the supernatural horror trope of having his heroes try to chase down a solution to best their monster, Leviticus is not really about that quest. At its core, it's about Naim and Ryan and what they will choose. There is no ceremony that will magically convert their parents to compassion. If they can't fare better with a mysterious demon, what path is left? 

Some might be frustrated with Chiarella's answer. But I found it awesome. Leviticus won't give an easy answer, just as it won't lay out simple rules of how this vicious monster operates. The movie never even declares it a demon. But based on genre tropes and my own Catholic upbringing, I'm calling it a demon. 

Instead, Leviticus relies not so much on rules or rituals to build its world and message, but on the performances of Bird and Clausen. As in Talk to Me, Bird has a riveting vulnerability onscreen. Here, his eyes flicker with lust, fear, jealousy, and bliss. His slightness compared to Ryan makes him seem fragile, whether he's risking a kiss or running for his life. He is alive, and how could an audience not fall under the skin of his experience, getting goose bumps in arousal and horror right alongside him? 

As to Clausen, he has two roles, Ryan and the demon version of Ryan. The former is mercurial, code-switching at school to perform hetero masculinity, even as he steals a glance at his crush. When they are alone, mischief sparkles in his eyes, then joy. His self-assuredness is an invitation for Naim to join him, which makes the demon wearing his face and openness as a mask all the more harrowing. This version of Ryan switches seamlessly from provocative lover to dead-eyed terror. When idle, the demon Ryan evokes Michael Myers in his Halloween mask, standing on a once-quaint lawn. When he attacks, his smile vanishes into a ruthless sneer or an inhuman wail. And each time, I felt my breath catch in my throat, until I finally let loose a scream so loud it alarmed even me. 

All this is to say that Leviticus is a religious horror movie about being queer, but one that, despite its demon, does not demonize queerness. Nor does this thriller drown in the bleakness of religious trauma. Instead, Chiarella expertly coaches his cast to plunge into the depths of such pain, so that their characters can surface gasping for air. And because he does so with such immersive intensity, we're left gasping too. 

Supremely suspenseful, smartly done, and ultimately rebellious, Leviticus is an absolute stunner. 

Leviticus opens in theaters on June 19.