presence

In this current moment, there is a relatability to Steven Soderbergh's Presence, a moody, domestic drama ghost story with a remarkably effective POV gimmick, cannily marketed as a horror picture by Neon (it originally premiered at Sundance in 2024, in what feels like an eternity ago). Some may feel like the ghost in this tale, bobbing around unseen in limited spaces, watching horrible world events unfold that are difficult and nearly impossible to undo or fix. The family at its center is Rebecca (Lucy Liu) and Chris (Chris Sullivan) and their teen children, Chloe (Callina Liang) and Tyler (Eddy Maday), move into a handsome two-story. The house is quiet, with lovely, modest rooms of hardwood floors and colorfully painted walls, an old mirror over the living room fireplace, and leafy, green views, except for an almost unsettlingly stream of traffic outside their windows (it was filmed in Cranford, New Jersey). The family's relationships are frayed. Chloe recently lost a friend, Tyler is an athlete, trying to stay popular in school, and Rebecca and Chris may have been involved in something nefarious in their jobs (smartly, this remains vague—a stray plot thread that doesn't need to over explained, nor neatly wrapped up as a lesser film would). The tensions between everyone, though not nearly as powerfully portrayed, is reminiscent of Robert Redford's Ordinary People (I felt this most in a scene when Rebecca and Tyler are bonding over Tyler's uncouth behavior at school, while Chris and Chloe are on the outs, reminding me of a quick flashback scene between Buck and Mary Tyler Moore's Beth).

The skillful cinematography by Soderbergh (aka Peter Andrews) takes on the perspective of an unnamed, undefined spirit whose cinematic sweeps through the house are evocative and near-seamlessly presented. I thought of the ghost child who haunts over Jonathan Demme's Rachel Getting Married, who sometimes seems to be much of that film's rocky and fragile point-of-view. Soderbergh, in his remarkably varied and fascinating ouvre, continues to play with form, technology and perspective while relaying a sense of thorny, heightened realism. Zach Ryan's score is somewhat florid, but very beautiful, almost Jerry Goldsmith-esque, adding both melancholy and warmth to the movie and the dream-state feel of the camerawork; many contemporary films of this ilk would have probably opted for a colder, starker tone with ambient, atonal music or no score at all. The script by David Koepp—a screenwriter with a familiar, cozily 1990s sensibility (a shorter version could have easily been one of those supernatural slices in The Sixth Sense)—has its moments of sharp characterizations and insights, though the actors seem to be imbuing the material, especially Sullivan, more thoroughly. Packing in quite a bit in its airy 85-minute runtime, the film swerves into jagged, crackerjack thriller territory in the final act, and yet still, the story (and its sudden, emotional coda) are so involving, that I appreciated it overall for its empathy, entertainment value and risk. ***

-Jeffery Berg