Steven Soderbergh is a filmmaker who thrives on experimentation, and Presence is his latest venture into uncharted territory. It’s a haunted house story, yes, but also a dissection of family dynamics and unspoken tensions, all filtered through a lens of chilling formal precision. Debuting at Sundance, this collaboration with screenwriter David Koepp (Kimi) explores the unseen forces—both supernatural and emotional—that shape our lives, leaving the audience grappling with questions of connection and estrangement.
The film opens with a quiet assurance that you’re in masterful hands. Soderbergh’s camera, operating under his usual pseudonym Peter Andrews, glides through an enormous, eerily empty house, lingering on the creaks of wooden stairs and the quiet menace of shadowed corners. The family that moves into this unsettling space is led by Rebekah (Lucy Liu, in a wonderfully brittle performance) and Chris (Chris Sullivan), who are trying to reset their lives after a tragedy. Their children—rebellious Chloe (Callina Liang) and golden-boy Tyler (Eddy Maday)—carry their own emotional baggage, creating a home simmering with barely-contained tension.
What makes Presence immediately captivating is its perspective. The story unfolds entirely through the gaze of an invisible, perhaps supernatural observer. This conceit is unnerving, as the camera becomes both an intruder and an omnipresent judge, pulling us into the claustrophobic confines of the family’s unraveling. Chloe is the first to notice the presence and even dares to acknowledge it, her tentative glances at the camera sending chills down the spine. Does she know what—or who—it is? Soderbergh and Koepp wisely leave this ambiguous, letting the mystery simmer as the family dynamic grows more strained.
Liu’s Rebekah is a standout. She’s a woman whose ambition comes at the cost of her relationships, particularly with Chloe, whose vulnerability she dismisses as weakness. Sullivan’s Chris is the grounding force, a father torn between loyalty to his wife and an unshakable concern for his daughter’s well-being. Liang, in a breakout role, plays Chloe with a mix of fragility and fierce resolve, anchoring the story’s emotional core.
As for the supernatural elements, Presence takes the road less traveled, relying on atmosphere rather than jump scares. The house itself feels alive, a character in its own right, thanks to Soderbergh’s meticulous framing and Zack Ryan’s haunting score. A fleeting shot of a mirror or the subtle rustling of papers evokes more dread than any CGI specter could.
Yet, for all its strengths, Presence doesn’t entirely escape the pitfalls of its own ambition. The film’s slow-burn approach, while effective in building tension, risks repetition in its middle act, and some of its ideas feel more gestured at than fully realized. The climactic twist—a moment of devastating revelation—is emotionally potent but verges on unraveling under the weight of its own complexity.
What lingers, however, is the film’s central metaphor. The titular presence isn’t just a ghostly force; it’s the manifestation of grief, guilt, and the secrets we keep from those closest to us. Soderbergh’s decision to trap us in the house, never cutting to the outside world, heightens the sense of entrapment and isolation.
In the end, Presence is less about answers and more about the lingering questions it leaves behind. What happens when the unseen forces in our lives become impossible to ignore? And are the ghosts that haunt us truly external, or do they live within?
Soderbergh’s latest may not be his boldest experiment, but it’s a haunting, exquisitely crafted one that reminds us of the power of perspective—and the weight of being watched.
3/5
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