Horror films have always been one of the most innovative genres in film form, providing a testing ground for filmmakers to pioneer various techniques, from chilling first-person perspectives to found-footage thrillers and even desktop movies. This allows filmmakers to push boundaries and explore new ways to scare audiences.
Even compared to this illustrious history, Steven Soderbergh's *Presence* stands out as perhaps the first horror film truly narrated from the perspective of a ghost—at least in a widely released film. Of course, there have been previous attempts at quasi-supernatural perspectives, such as 2017's *A Ghost Story*, in which Casey Affleck literally wears a bedsheet, or many films whose twist endings reveal a character has been dead all along (which we won't name for spoiler reasons). These films often play with perspective, but not to the same extent as *Presence*.
But what sets Soderbergh's new film apart is the way it conveys this perspective, conjuring a truly inhuman feeling, a spectral vision that might be a transmission from another dimension. Soderbergh shot using a Sony DSLR switched to video mode, creating the impression of a soul lingering between planes of existence. Shots are taken in long takes with a bizarre, staccato rhythm, as if every other frame is missing, rendering the actors' dialogue slightly out of sync. The effect is both unsettling and exhilarating, like watching CCTV footage from the afterlife. The unique visual style is key to the film's atmosphere.
*Presence* opens with the entity already present in the empty, century-old house, watching as a real estate agent (played by Brat Pack muse Julia Fox) arrives to prepare for a house inspection. (If you've ever clicked through a 360-degree panorama view of a property listing, the imagery will feel uncannily familiar.) Moments later, a middle-aged couple, Rebecca (Lucy Liu) and Chris (Chris Sullivan), arrive with their teenage children, Tyler (Eddy Maday) and Chloe (Callina Liang). The mother dominates the household, insisting on buying the house and moving in; it's subtly implied that she may be involved in some shady, illicit dealings, a situation that's sowing seeds of tension within the marriage. This sets the stage for the family's unsettling experience.
Of greater concern is the sullen, anxious Chloe, who has become withdrawn after the recent overdose death of her best friend, Nadia. Timid and moody, she's the antithesis of her obnoxious jock brother, who wants her to get over it and not embarrass him in front of his newly acquired cool-guy friend, Ryan (West Mulholland). When objects start moving on their own in the house, it's the sensitive Chloe who becomes aware of the presence. Textbooks float across the room and rearrange themselves neatly. Lightbulbs malfunction and explode. She's convinced it's Nadia, still clinging to the mortal coil. But could it be something more sinister, an ancient poltergeist long inhabiting the land? The mystery deepens as the strange occurrences escalate.
All of this unfolds through the eyes of the ghost, which lends the film a constant, unnerving tension, less of outright fear than dread—you can never be quite sure what's happening, because the perspective is so divorced from what we traditionally understand as reality. At times it turns into those old YouTube videos where nothing happens as the viewer braces for the inevitable jump scare—but the scare never truly arrives, only a sustained, accumulating unease. A visiting psychic (Natalie Woolams-Torres) tells the family of their creepy cohabitant: "It's suffering." Whatever it is, it's not operating on human time. The film masterfully builds suspense through its unique perspective.
If *Presence* seems like unusual territory for Soderbergh, the indie maverick who has reshaped American studio filmmaking with *Erin Brockovich*, the *Magic Mike* movies, and the *Ocean's Eleven* franchise, the film is more personal than you might expect. Soderbergh's mother was a parapsychologist, and he says *Presence* was inspired by the fact that his own childhood home was reportedly haunted. It's a bold experiment for a director who regularly reinvigorates his formal experimentation by toying with technology—for instance, his digital experiments *Bubble* and *The Girlfriend Experience*, or the iPhone-shot psychological thriller *Unsane*. Soderbergh continues to push the boundaries of filmmaking.
Yet even in its brief 84 minutes, the film can't quite sustain its supernatural bluff, and more conventional plot elements—courtesy of veteran screenwriter David Koepp, whose credits range from *Jurassic Park* to Soderbergh's *Kimi*—eventually take over. Still, the film isn't diminished by its conventional narrative thrust. Soderbergh and Koepp keep the film tense and twisty from start to its unsettling final image, ultimately delivering an ending that's both chilling and emotionally resonant. You might even feel a little haunted yourself. The film leaves a lasting impression on the viewer.