Compare Leviticus vs The Incomer

The sub-90-minute length is generally viewed as welcome and efficient. A few critics still felt the final stretch repeated itself or that the story needed more room to develop.

At 102 minutes, the film feels overextended to some, with repeated beats and an elongated climax making a tighter cut seem preferable.

Despite the supernatural premise, the social pressure, secrecy, jealousy, and religious coercion feel painfully plausible. That grounded reality makes the curse more disturbing.

The fairy-tale framing gives the story license to bend reality, but some gags and the mechanics of decades-long island survival strain credibility even within that mode.

The condemnation of conversion therapy and religiously sanctioned shame is forceful and easy to understand. Some critics felt the message became too blunt, repetitive, or heavy-handed.

The film’s strongest message concerns fear of change, inherited stories, self-acceptance, and the need for connection. Even mixed reactions often find that hopeful core worthwhile.

Humor is rare and deliberately uncomfortable. The few darkly comic beats do not land for every viewer and offer little relief from the film’s bleakness.

Comedy is the film’s most polarizing trait. Many find the deadpan, physical, culture-clash absurdity hilarious, while others call the jokes repetitive, juvenile, or overly quirky.

The monster’s use of a loved one’s face is a strong, emotionally loaded horror hook. Familiar stalking mechanics remain, but the conversion-therapy framework gives the plot a distinctive purpose.

The route from hostility to connection is often predictable and follows familiar outsider-story beats. The execution, performances, and folklore details are what keep that familiar structure engaging.

The violence is brutal and emotionally purposeful rather than constant. Its limited but graphic attacks reinforce the cruelty of the premise without becoming sadistic spectacle.

Violence is mostly stylized and comic, but the sudden third-act escalation can feel disjointed from the warmer tone rather than satisfyingly intense.

Romance, dread, sorrow, and cautious hope are balanced with unusual confidence. The film can pivot from tenderness to violence without making either side feel incidental.

The film walks a difficult line between whimsy, tenderness, and darker folklore. At its best the balance feels controlled; at its weakest, violence and sincere trauma arrive too abruptly beside the twee comedy.

The strongest exchanges feel casual and revealing, especially between the two boys. Some later dialogue is clunky or too explicit about the film’s themes.

The siblings’ verbal sparring is sharp and absurd while remaining emotionally sincere, helping the strange behavior feel internally believable.

The tender, awkward first-love story is one of the film’s most consistently praised elements. Its intimacy gives the supernatural threat real weight and keeps the movie from becoming only a trauma allegory.

The romance is divisive: Isla’s tentative awakening can be touching and funny, but the love-triangle mechanics are also called thin and unconvincing.

The jealousy, betrayal, repression, and longing often carry more force than the supernatural attacks. The romantic conflict gives the horror its emotional stakes.

The darker dramatic material can feel mismatched with the lighter comedy, particularly when supporting subplots push the film toward a more extreme register.

The script has a potent premise and strong relationship details, but its development is uneven. Critics most often questioned thin supporting roles, repeated third-act beats, and incomplete supernatural rules.

The screenplay earns praise for emotional grounding, character affection, and oddball consistency, but repetition and underdeveloped characters expose weaknesses in the longer format.

Jed Kurzel’s score blends melancholy with low, ominous pressure. It supports both the romance and the dread without overwhelming the film’s quieter moments.

The score is highly taste-dependent. Its folk-inflected, quirky textures can deepen the island atmosphere, but the plucky strings and horns sometimes feel overly insistent.

The desire-shaped demon is a sharp variation on the supernatural-stalker formula, and the queer perspective gives it distinct emotional meaning. Comparisons with It Follows are unavoidable, and a few critics found the execution overly familiar.

Its eccentric fairy-tale identity feels genuinely singular to some, while others see familiar indie-comedy influences beneath the surface. The premise feels fresher than every thematic or comic beat.

The core story combines first love, betrayal, conversion therapy, and supernatural pursuit with clear emotional purpose. Its impact is reduced for some viewers by sparse character history and an underdeveloped mythology.

The story is broadly seen as a sweet, strange fable about isolation, grief, and connection. Its emotional sincerity wins over many viewers even when the plot follows familiar paths.

The curse turns imposed shame into a physical threat, making desire, repression, betrayal, and community control inseparable. The metaphor is blunt but widely considered powerful, timely, and emotionally coherent.

Themes of loneliness, inherited fear, belonging, grief, and change give the comedy real substance. Some takes find those ideas underexplored or too surface-level, but the emotional intent is consistently clear.

Naim’s flaws and emotional shifts come through clearly, but Ryan and several supporting characters can feel thin or unevenly developed. The limited backstory weakens the impact for some viewers.

Isla and the sibling bond receive meaningful emotional layering, but Daniel and especially Sandy can feel underdeveloped in weaker stretches. The character work is strongest when loneliness and changing relationships take precedence over quirks.

The film earns strong tension, a few standout jump scares, and several disturbing identity-switch set pieces. Reactions are mixed on overall fright level, with some viewers finding the supernatural element restrained or underwhelming.

Scare beats work best as brief pressure points before the comedy releases the tension, letting the film flirt with folk horror without becoming a full horror experience.

The editing creates sharp shifts between open-space unease and claustrophobic danger while keeping the story compact. Its timing helps uncertainty linger whenever a familiar face appears.

Editing choices are used effectively for comic timing and tension, especially concise cuts and focal-length-driven sequences. The craft is stronger than the screenplay’s repetitive stretches.

The compact runtime keeps most of the film focused, and several critics praised its escalating tension. Others felt the slow-burn setup dragged, the final act repeated itself, or the story moved too quickly to deepen its characters.

Momentum is uneven: several responses flag repetition, overlong detours, or a loss of steam after the first hour. Others find the comic action brisk enough to keep the film moving.

The wound effects are used sparingly but land with convincing impact. Their restraint keeps the violence tactile without turning the film into a gore showcase.

The practical-effects work is praised as a tactile part of the film’s handmade folklore aesthetic.

Practical wounds and digital enhancements are used selectively and effectively. The effects support the violence without distracting from the performances.

The practical and creature effects fit the film’s handmade folktale aesthetic and are praised as a strong craft element.

Adrian Chiarella’s debut is widely regarded as assured, sensitive, and controlled. He handles intimacy and dread especially well, even when the screenplay’s rules or side characters are less polished.

Paxton’s direction is widely admired for visual control, straight-faced handling of absurdity, and gentle fable-like texture. Some see first-feature growing pains and occasional over-stylization.

The film’s direct queer perspective gives its horror unusual specificity and emotional authenticity. It has been praised as a meaningful contribution to queer horror rather than a generic curse story with representation added on.

The film’s Scottish identity comes through in its locations, folklore, talent, and satire of local bureaucracy. Its cultural specificity helps ground an otherwise fanciful story.

The film is frequently described as heartbreaking, haunting, and deeply upsetting, with a modest thread of hope. Viewers who wanted fuller characterization were less emotionally invested.

Beneath the silliness, the film often lands as tender and unexpectedly moving, especially around grief, loneliness, and human connection. A few takes find the emotional foundation too light for the darker turns.

The central curse is easy to grasp, but its boundaries and behavior are not always consistent. Questions about when victims are truly alone and how the entity learns remain underexplained.

A few logistical details around the authorities’ delayed response do not add up cleanly, creating small gaps in an otherwise easy-to-follow setup.

Desaturated industrial landscapes, intimate close-ups, and isolating compositions give the film a bleak but striking look. The camera repeatedly turns open spaces and familiar faces into sources of unease.

The Scottish setting is photographed with striking natural beauty, from verdant landscapes and cold coastlines to intimate natural-light interiors. Even negative takes regularly single out the imagery.

Many critics admired the bittersweet final note and its refusal to offer an easy cure, finding it graceful and hopeful without denying lasting danger. Others found the ending abrupt or insufficiently resolved.

The ending generally restores the film’s emotional footing, with self-acceptance and earned change landing well. A few reactions note a slight late decline before the final payoff.

The movie delivers enough gore, jumps, stalking tension, and dread to function as horror while remaining primarily character-driven. Viewers seeking nonstop scares may find it quieter than expected.

As an adult folk-comedy fable, the film is distinctive and often charming, though its aggressively quaint side can overwhelm viewers resistant to twee humor.

Uncertainty over whether Naim or Ryan is real drives sustained, often nail-biting tension. The film is strongest when affection and danger occupy the same scene.

Suspense works in bursts, especially cliffside danger and early confrontations, and often pairs well with comedy. The bureaucratic threat itself is less consistently urgent.

The central romance is powered by unusually strong chemistry, with the leads making stolen affection, distrust, and reconciliation feel immediate. A small minority found the relationship underwritten despite the performances.

The central trio’s rapport is one of the film’s safest strengths, with lively banter and convincing warmth. The romantic pairing is less consistently persuasive than the broader group dynamic.

The town and its social pressure feel convincing, but the supernatural mythology is notably thin. Several critics wanted clearer lore, stronger rules, and more context for the healer’s power.

The island feels like its own peculiar ecosystem, built from folklore, rituals, geography, and visual contrast with the mainland. That specificity is central to the film’s distinctive identity.

Understated clothing supports the town’s drab conformity and the film’s grounded unease. The design works quietly with the setting rather than calling attention to itself.

The handmade bird ritual costumes are a standout craft element, giving the siblings’ folklore a memorable physical identity.

The abandoned mill, faded homes, church interiors, and industrial surroundings create a spare, oppressive world. Small visual details reinforce the boys’ isolation and the community’s emotional austerity.

The island cottage is a particularly strong piece of production design, feeling lived-in and organically tied to the siblings’ isolated life.

Clanks, hums, silence, and other abrasive textures create a sinister atmosphere that feels larger than the film’s budget. The soundscape is especially effective when reality and imitation begin to blur.

Natural wind, birds, and crashing water are captured vividly, giving the island an elemental presence that often works better than the busier musical cues.

Muted colors, industrial decay, shadows, and carefully separated figures create a bleak social-realist texture. Softer images of togetherness provide a meaningful contrast.

Natural color, rugged scenery, animation, and carefully composed interiors create a vivid storybook look without making the island feel glossy or artificial.

The film can be gripping and emotionally absorbing, but its bleakness makes it more punishing than conventionally fun. Its strongest appeal is to viewers who value mood, metaphor, and romance over constant thrills.

Most responses find the film easy to enjoy, watchable, and warmly entertaining, with a handful of detractors who never connect with its style. Its strongest entertainment value comes from the cast and oddball comedy.

Mia Wasikowska makes the mother’s cold, conflicted faith unsettling, even with limited screen time. Critics often wished the role and other adults had been developed further.

The supporting cast is described as strong, adding sharp energy around the central trio without becoming the main attraction.

The selective use of songs, especially Frank Ocean’s “Self Control,” gives the closing movement a bittersweet emotional lift. The soundtrack complements rather than overwhelms the original score.

The brooding, unnerving soundtrack is an important part of the film’s sensory identity, adding a darker current beneath the comedy.

Joe Bird and Stacy Clausen are the clear standout, bringing tenderness, panic, guilt, and menace to emotionally demanding roles. Even less enthusiastic critics generally praised the acting.

The ensemble is a major strength: the three leads repeatedly make the oddball material feel committed, funny, and emotionally grounded. Even more skeptical takes tend to praise the cast.

Joe Bird gives Naim a vulnerable, expressive interior life, while Stacy Clausen shifts convincingly between tenderness, bravado, and frightening impersonation. Both leads are repeatedly singled out as major strengths.

Gleeson’s lead comic work is a highlight, with his committed awkwardness and willingness to join the islanders’ rituals making Daniel especially watchable.

The emotional romance and accessible curse premise give the film crossover potential beyond dedicated horror fans. Its bleak subject matter and restrained supernatural spectacle may narrow that appeal.

Its eccentricity is the dividing line: some see broad, crowd-pleasing charm, while others find the twee, overt weirdness alienating. Viewers already fond of offbeat indie comedy are the clearest fit.

The late action works best when physical comedy and genuine emotion share the same scene, giving the finale energy without abandoning the film’s eccentric tone.

The hand-drawn animation is consistently praised for turning the island’s folklore into a storybook world. Several responses wanted even more of it.

The father’s inherited rules give the siblings’ isolation emotional weight, but the parental trauma beneath those rules is not explored as deeply as it could be.

The unlikely bond between Daniel and the siblings is handled with genuine affection, making companionship and chosen connection feel central rather than incidental.

The creature makeup and prosthetics give the Fin Man a memorable, menacing seal-like appearance and are singled out as impressive craft work.

The recurring sex-toy gag is a clear taste test: it can play as absurdly funny or as another example of the film pushing its cutesy raunch too hard.

Critical response is strongly favorable, with particular enthusiasm for the performances, central metaphor, suspense, and romance. Reservations focus mainly on familiar influences and underdeveloped rules.

The film is explicitly recommended as worth seeing, with its humor and feel-good quality supporting a positive sense of ticket value.