In the world of Steven Soderbergh, even the most familiar genres feel like unexplored territory. Known for his slick, cool approach to everything from heist films (Ocean’s Eleven) to intimate biographical dramas (The Informant!), the director has proven himself a master of reinvention. With Presence, Soderbergh veers sharply into the supernatural, delivering a haunted-house story that defies expectations in the most startling ways. At just 85 minutes, the film feels like an exercise in precision and restraint, a slow-burn meditation on grief and family, as much as it is a ghost story. The premise is familiar: a family of four, Rebecca (Lucy Liu), Chris (Chris Sullivan), their teenage children, Chloe (Callina Liang) and Tyler (Eddy Maday), move into a new house, only to find that it is not entirely empty. The film shares more than a passing resemblance to the found footage horror boom of the late 2000s, particularly Paranormal Activity, with its intimate, first-person perspective. The ghost, however, is not the usual terror. It hovers, watches, and at times, offers a comforting presence, a sharp contrast to the more malevolent spirits that typically haunt such narratives. The result is an eerie, almost spectral quality to the film, as if the viewer themselves are being watched by something both benign and unsettling.
Soderbergh, who takes on both directing and cinematography duties, uses the ghost’s point-of-view as a tool for subtle emotional manipulation. The camera, often drifting just inches behind the family members, is as much a voyeur as it is a participant in the household’s unraveling. The ghost is not simply a harbinger of doom; it is an observer, reflecting the tension and disquiet already brewing among the family members. This deliberate choice amplifies the creeping dread of Presence, which is not the result of loud bangs or flickering lights, but of a family slowly suffocating under the weight of its own dysfunction. The performances are raw and grounded, the emotional stakes of each scene anchored by a superb cast. Lucy Liu plays Rebecca with a cool detachment that belies the layers of pain beneath her facade. She is every bit the modern, suburban woman with it all; yet beneath the surface, a deeper, darker sorrow lingers. Chris Sullivan, as the father, shines in what is perhaps one of the best father roles in recent memory. His portrayal of Chris is achingly human, a man caught between providing for his family and dealing with the messiness of their emotional lives. Sullivan’s performance is subtle but powerful, particularly when he is forced to confront his own complicity in the family’s troubles.
Yet the heart of Presence lies with its younger characters, Chloe and Tyler, both of whom embody the tumult of adolescence with painful honesty. Tyler, played by Eddy Maday, is a typical high school jock; at least on the surface. His casual cruelty to his sister, his nonchalance towards his parents, and his pervasive sense of entitlement reveal a far darker side to his character, suggesting that the true menace may lie within the walls of this seemingly perfect family. Chloe, on the other hand, played by Callina Liang, slowly begins to recognize her unusual sensitivity to the spirit world. Her burgeoning connection to the ghost, which hints at a lost friend who overdosed, offers a window into the more tender and sorrowful aspects of the film. But the most unexpected twist in Presence comes when the ghost, which might have been expected to become a vengeful spirit, instead seems to draw closer as a kind of reluctant protector. The film shifts away from the horror tropes of the haunted house genre to suggest that the real monsters may not be supernatural at all, but the living. As Chloe begins a tentative romance with Tyler’s friend, Ryan (West Mulholland), the ghost watches, its presence lingering over their budding relationship like a silent, sorrowful witness. In this way, Presence reimagines the supernatural as not an agent of horror, but a mirror to the emotional fractures within a family.
The juxtaposition of the mundane and the mystical gives Presence its unique flavor. It is a story about a family that looks perfect on the outside but is as fractured and haunted as the house they occupy. The ghost doesn’t want to destroy them; it wants to bear witness, to remind them of the connections they’ve lost. As in American Beauty, Soderbergh’s film reveals how even the most idyllic suburban setting can harbor dark, unresolved tensions. The true horror here is not the ghostly apparitions, but the way in which grief, neglect, and unspoken pain fester in plain sight. While Presence is a departure for Soderbergh, it still carries his signature touch: meticulous framing, a sharp ear for dialogue, and an ability to push the boundaries of genre. Though the film can be haunting, it is far from conventional horror fare. The creeping sense of dread comes not from gory violence or jump-scares, but from the recognition that the true specter here is the weight of a family’s secrets. In a year filled with supernatural offerings, Presence stands apart, offering a haunting look at how the past, both living and dead, can continue to shape our lives. It is a film that lingers long after the credits roll, leaving the audience to contemplate the ghosts that might be lurking in their own lives. Highest recommendation.