Steven Soderbergh has always thrived on breaking conventions, reshaping genres, and turning storytelling norms on their heads. From Traffic to Unsane, his lens has always captured the uncomfortable nuances of human nature, often bending genres to his will. With Presence, he doesn’t just toy with the haunted house formula—he deconstructs it, rebuilds it from the inside out, and forces us to exist within its very walls. Here, the ghost isn’t the monster. The house isn’t just a setting. And fear isn’t dictated by jump scares but by something far more unnerving: the inevitability of human disconnection.
The film’s premise is deceptively simple: a family of four—Rebekah (Lucy Liu), Chris (Chris Sullivan), Chloe (Callina Liang), and Tyler (Eddy Maday)—moves into a new house, unknowingly sharing it with a spirit. But Soderbergh’s masterstroke lies in the film’s perspective. Presence is entirely shot from the ghost’s point of view, making the audience a silent observer, tethered to the very walls of the home. First-person movies are rare, and when they are attempted, they often fall short. But Presence nails it, delivering an immersive atmosphere that truly draws you in.
What initially seems like a slow burn soon reveals itself as something more intimate. This isn’t a ghost story about terrorizing a family—it’s about witnessing one slowly unravel, with or without supernatural intervention. The most haunting presence in Presence isn’t the ghost—it’s grief, isolation, and the aching silence between words left unsaid. This is not a horror movie in the conventional sense; it is, at its core, a sad, dysfunctional family drama. In fact, it’s unfair to label this movie as a horror film—its intent isn’t to scare you with frights, but to unsettle you through raw emotion and quiet introspection. It’s not that scary, and it shouldn’t be.
David Koepp’s script understands that real horror doesn’t always need words. The film thrives in the quiet moments—Chloe standing alone in her room, staring at the outline of where her best friend’s photos used to be; Rebekah washing dishes while her husband, lost in his own world, fails to notice her shoulders trembling. The ghost watches, but so do we. And the silence speaks louder than any dialogue could.
The movie doesn’t rely on jump scares, and that’s one of its strongest attributes. Fear creeps in through the atmosphere, the discomfort of strained relationships, and the helplessness of watching people drift apart. When the characters do speak, the words feel raw and unfiltered. There’s no manufactured horror-movie exposition, no ominous warnings or over-explained backstory. Dialogue flows with an organic unpredictability—sentences cut off, misunderstandings linger, and moments of hesitation carry as much weight as words themselves. It’s a style that may frustrate some viewers but deeply rewards those who lean in.
Cinematographically, Presence is Soderbergh at his most experimental. The camera glides rather than cuts, existing within the space rather than dictating it. A slight fisheye lens effect distorts perspectives just enough to create discomfort without veering into gimmickry. We aren’t just watching the film; we are the entity moving through the house, confined within it, unable to intervene. The way the cinematography enforces and strengthens this idea is brilliant. The half-fisheye effect and the smooth, eerie flow of the camera’s movement heighten the sensation that we are not just watching, but haunting this space.
This immersive approach proves that a good idea, a strong story, and skilled execution can overcome high budgets and flashy technology. Much like Juror #2, Presence delivers its narrative in a raw, unpolished fashion—eschewing over-capitalized CGI and high-maintenance visual effects in favor of genuine atmosphere and emotional weight.
Lucy Liu delivers a career-best performance as Rebekah, a woman visibly trying to hold her family together while slowly unraveling at the seams. Chris Sullivan’s Chris, often the silent figure in the background, carries an understated but deeply felt weight. But it’s Callina Liang as Chloe who truly anchors the film. Her portrayal of a grieving teenager, not only mourning a personal loss but also navigating an emotional chasm between herself and her family, is devastatingly real.
Interestingly, the strongest performance might be the one we never see. The ghost—uncredited, unseen, yet profoundly felt—becomes a character in its own right, not because of any visual representation but because of how the world reacts to it. That’s a testament to both Soderbergh’s direction and the film’s deeply internalized storytelling.
Presence is an experimental film that takes risks, and I’m confident they pay off. It challenges conventions, reframes how we experience storytelling, and proves that sometimes, silence can be the loudest scream. You can tell Soderbergh truly believes in this idea and is fully dedicated to it.
That said, the movie isn’t flawless. It lacks a bit of emotional depth in some areas, and the ending, while effective, can feel a bit predictable—at least for some viewers. After researching audience reactions, it appears the ending is a 50-50 affair; many were surprised by it, while others, like myself, saw it coming but still found themselves waiting in anticipation. A part of me wanted it to end this way.
Presence isn’t a film for everyone. Those expecting traditional horror tropes may find themselves restless, waiting for a moment of catharsis that never truly comes. But that’s the point. Soderbergh has created something uniquely disquieting—a film where unease is cultivated not through shock, but through its quiet, creeping intensity. A story about ghosts, yes, but more importantly, about the things we allow to haunt us long after the lights come back on.
The film’s impact doesn’t come from what’s shown, but from the emotions it stirs and the lingering unease it leaves behind. And Presence ensures that feeling never truly leaves.
Rating: ★★★★★★★☆☆☆ (7/10)