Steven Soderbergh’s Presence is a minimalist fable that does the most with the least. The film centers around a family of four moving into a new house inhabited by a ghost, a spirit with a mysterious final task left to complete on Earth. Its presence is only felt by the family’s daughter Chloe (Callina Lang), who suspects it to be a suicide victim she once knew. As the family grapples with various life struggles, the presence watches silently, unaware of its purpose. And as the family’s future grows murkier, the presence’s reason for existing finally comes into focus.
On paper, Presence feels like an exercise in restraint. The entire film is presented from the Presence’s POV, manifested as an omnipotent camera that randomly blacks out and reappears during a later time. It’s a new twist that elevates a simple ghost story to a character study of a being unaware of itself, slowly developing its own consciousness. Like an pet studying its humans, Soderbergh (pulling double-duty as the film’s cinematographer) lets the Presence’s behavior and curiosity develop through minimal exposition and simple camera tricks.
It all comes together for a surprisingly effective minimalist drama, with a shocking twist ending leaving viewers’ minds blown.
I Ain’t Afraid Of No Ghosts
A ghost, referred to as “The Presence”, inhabits an empty suburban house bought by a new family – worried patriarch Chris (Chris Sullivan), icy businesswoman Rebecca (Lucy Liu), arrogant jock son Tyler (Eddy Maday), and introspective daughter Chloe (Callina Liang). The ghost witnesses the family’s infighting, with Chris and Rebecca’s marriage on the rocks due to Rebecca embezzling her employer’s money. Tyler is only concerned with befriending the popular kids, while Chloe begins sensing the Presence.
The Presence’s imprint grows on the family, even knocking over a drink spiked by Chloe’s crush Ryan (West Mulholland). A psychic informs them the Presence may not be aware of how it died or even its reason for still existing. As the family’s tensions reach a boiling point, the parents leave for a business trip. Chloe invites Ryan over, who attempts to drug and murder her before the Presence alerts a sedated Tyler. After a scuffle, Tyler and Ryan are thrown through a window and are killed.
In a twist, the Presence is revealed to be Tyler. Having completed his final task, aiding his living self to save his sister, the Presence ascends to heaven as the family begins to rebuild.
Style? Substance? Why Not Both?
On paper, the concept for Presence could be laughed off as a gimmick. But in Soderbergh’s hands, it becomes a surprisingly effective tool for relaying characterization. A master at using the camera to pull attention, Soderbergh perfectly conveys the Presence’s POV, as a spirit still learning and finding itself. The camera’s POV feels alive, as if the Presence is unaware of what to focus on. The film’s extremely minimal exposition perfectly covers the Presence’s limitations, as lays the foundation for the film’s final twist (set up beautifully by repeated POV “glances” to a bedroom window).
In the film’s first act, the audience gets nervous whenever the camera drifts too close to a character, ready for the Presence to catch them. But as the Presence’s intentions are revealed, the film’s latter half takes on a sadder tone, almost inviting viewers to piece together the Presence’s purpose. It’s a unique tonal journey told with almost zero dialogue.
By shooting the film in this way, Presence takes on a voyeuristic quality atypical for most ghost stories. Many modern films centering around ghosts rely on static camerawork, allowing the audience to imagine a spirit lurking in any corner, its nefarious intentions unknown. By placing us in the Presence’s eyes, we know where it is. We can see it coming.
A Masterclass In Monologues
This is a movie where every single actor gets a page-long monologue. Luckily, Soderbergh found an ensemble who could carry the load. The dialogue’s cadence is more reminiscent of theatre than the uber-naturalistic style of film, but it all feels cohesive enough to draw in the viewers. Some actors struggle more than others, especially Maday, who often feels limited by his character’s wordy speeches.
Sullivan plays a worried suburban patriarch with alternating intensity and gentleness, capturing modern masculinity and familial devotion in each word. He’s also responsible for the film’s comedic moments, playing up the quiet awkwardness of a dad who has no idea what his kids need. Liu plays a perfect dance partner, grounding the film in her stoic performance. When she finally breaks down in the film’s closing moments, her intensity truly shakes the screen.
But the film’s standout is Liang, who manages to convey waterfalls of emotion with her eyes alone. Digging into the soul of an quiet teenager, Liang imbues her character with so much soul that audiences will have clenched fists hoping for her to make it out OK by the end.
Some of the character interactions feel a bit off, with Rebecca’s obsession with Tyler coming off more disturbing than intended. And the film’s shock villain Ryan leans a bit too far into caricature in the film’s climax, delivering a shlocky monologue closer to a Ryan Murphy production. Luckily for the film, it’s built up enough audience investment to carry itself through.
Who You Gonna Call? YOUR BROTHER!
Due to the Presence blacking out at random moments, the film’s structure feels very dreamlike. By fading in and out of the family’s squabbles, scenes often simply stop rather than flow to an end. Because of this, the film doesn’t feel cohesive in the early stages. At first, the slow pace feels punishing. The film’s marketing hinted at a less esoteric film than the final product, and audiences may find themselves restless in the film’s first two acts. However, these disparate elements ultimately work in the film’s favor, as the third act slowly ups the intensity to a fever pitch before the film’s end.
Certain plotlines feel extraneous, including Rebecca committing financial fraud, Chris contemplating divorce, and Chloe’s relationship to a suicide victim she believes could be the Presence. While the intent was to show layers to the family’s dynamic beyond the Presence’s knowledge, lingering on these random sequences makes the film feel unfocused.
Soderbergh holds himself back in this movie, but the few moments he lets his horror roots out hit so much harder. The first time the Presence knocks over Chloe’s spiked drink, it seems inconsequential. But because it’s the first time the Presence has actively saved a family member, this simple horror trope becomes a defining character beat that changes the whole context of the film.
And as the film closes on the Presence ascending to heaven, the audience is left with a feeling of satisfaction. Having grown to know both the ghost and the family, seeing both parties free to finally move on is truly cathartic. No sequel teases, no cliffhangers. That’s it.
Conclusion:
Presence is not a good horror movie. It’s light on scares, setpieces, and the propulsive energy needed to induce fear. Instead, the film succeeds as a melancholy drama, at its strongest when focusing on character dynamics and underplayed conflict.
Presence is a film unconcerned with the world around it. It exists in the vacuum of one house, its vision locked to a single family. It’s a film marked by its restraint, using the few tools at its disposal to extreme effect. By all rights, it’s a movie that should come across as a pretentious exercise, limited by a filmmaker too smart for its own good.
But by the end, this little story may just leave viewers feeling the peace and catharsis of a ghost rising to heaven.
Presence is now playing in theatres nationwide.
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