Steven Soderbergh’s body of work shows an auteur who engages in the art of exploring how the form and function of cinema impacts narrative. Soderbergh’s process of embedding filmmaking techniques within the narrative of his films commenced in a literal sense with sex, lies, and videotape, and continued with the kaleidoscopic Traffic and the distribution defying Bubble, he later pushed formal boundaries of filmmaking with his sojourns into iPhone cinematography with Unsane and High Flying Bird. These films, and many more in his deep and rewarding filmography, poke, probe, and provoke with a creative stance that calls attention to the way films are shot, edited, and finally projected in a cinema or viewed at home. As evidenced in his work, Soderbergh has mindset of an artist who seeks to create a body of work that stands as a thesis on how the technical aspects of filmmaking culminates in a unique sense of emotionality that is unique to the artform.
For his latest towering work of emotionality, Presence, Soderbergh reunites with writer David Koepp (the two previously collaborated on 2022’s pandemic reaction thriller Kimi) to craft a deeply considered family drama as viewed from the perspective of the titular spectral entity. Koepp has form with ghostly stories, having written and directed the undervalued nineties haunter Stir of Echoes. Yet, what sets Soderbergh’s dramaapart from that unsettling flick is the realisation that Presence is decidedly not a horror film.
External to Presence is the perceived notion from select audience members that ghost stories exclusively exist within the horror genre. This is not the case for Presence, which exists as a spectral drama which is underpinned by a level of emotion and pain that we experience through a floating, wandering entity that swoops and sways through a family home as it seeks to understand its fellow occupants. With Presence, Soderbergh never suggests to his audience that they’re getting anything other than a family drama, and in that process, he does what he has always done: asks his audience to meet his films on their level.
Soderbergh maintains his auteur status by continuing to utilise aliases for key roles on his films; Peter Andrews and Mary Ann Bernard are credited as cinematographer and editor respectively, even though they are both Soderbergh at work. While Koepp is the writer, it’s Soderbergh’s singular vision that turns Presence into an exercise of cinematic boundary pushing, testing the limits of how the art of filmmaking can make audiences feel. Can Soderbergh make you understand the motivations and internal narrative of a character that we never see?
Soderbergh’s camera (a Sony DSLR) immerses us in the viewpoint of the Presence, and it’s through this perspective that we meet the new occupants of the home the entity resides in: a family made up of Rebekah (Lucy Liu) and Chris (Chris Sullivan), parents to Tyler (Eddy Maday) and Chloe (Callina Liang).
We learn what the Presence learns about the family, meaning that information gleaned about their lives or careers is constricted to the discussions they have within the walls of their home. Rebekah works in ‘business’, and it’s inferred that she’s the breadwinner of the family, a role she holds with conviction as a way to ensure that Tyler, her eldest child, is able to achieve the greatest heights he can with his career as a swimmer. Chris is a husband concerned for the welfare of Chloe, a teen who has endured immense tragedy after the deaths of two of her friends, leaving her in a state of depression and despair.
Not helping the matter is the level of outward favouritism and uncomfortable affection that Rebekah lays upon Tyler. The Presence observes one moment of tipsy openness from Rebekah as she fawns over her son, telling him that his success is all that matters and that it doesn’t matter what mistakes he makes, as long as he’s doing them for the right reason. Liu balances the unsettling incestuous tone of Rebekah’s affection with the sincerity of a mother who simply wants her first child to be the best he ever can be, even if it comes at the cost of a full life for her daughter.
As we spend time with the family, we grow to understand what kind of character the Presence is. Through the slow movement of Soderbergh’s camera, we learn that the Presence is not a malicious entity, but rather one that observes and gathers an understanding of who it is cohabiting with. As it learns about the family, it engages in acts of tenderness; in one moment, it watches Chloe in a state of distress, and when she heads into the bathroom, the Presence packs up her belongings and tidies her desk. Later, the Presence quietly closes Chloe’s bedroom door, giving her a moment of peace. Chloe is naturally unsettled by these interactions, which become an additional point of anxiety in her life.
Presence occasionally dips its toes into the realm of mystery, with Soderbergh holding long, unbroken takes of keen observation which act as pools where information about the family, the house, and, ultimately, who the Presence is, can gather. Soderbergh delicately slips between scenes by cutting to black, the absence of a harsh cut to the next scene acting as a way to give audiences a moment to collect their understanding and thoughts on what they, and the Presence, has just witnessed. By utilising cuts to black in this way, scenes become moments in time that blink into existence, as if the Presence is understanding the now to comprehend the past.
The language of cinema resides at the core of Presence; Soderbergh pointedly places weathered silver nitrate mirrors in the family home, as if it is the history of cinema projected back at the family. We are constantly aware of the presence of Soderbergh’s camera with its pseudo-first-person perspective inviting us into the world. This creative intrusion enhances the experience of Presence in a satisfying and almost delightful way; you can’t help but anticipate how Soderbergh is going unveil the narrative for you.
Koepp’s script acts as a powerful ode to family, loss, and the weight of existence, and it’s with those in mind that the circular nature of its textual form gives way to a film that opens itself up on repeat viewings where it encourages viewers to explore the drama and eventual tragedy that underpins the narrative.
While Soderbergh quietly pushes against the genre expectations of the narrative with the form of his filmmaking, he does lean his thumb on the scale a little too often by allowing Zack Ryan’s impressive score to dominate the emotional journey of the film. Ryan’s score is moving and impactful, however I hoped that the film would let me discover the tragedy and drama of the narrative itself, rather than being pulled to the emotional reaction the score wanted me to feel. A riskier, less commercial-minded Soderbergh might have crafted Presence without a score, allowing the silence to fully immerse viewers in the mind and perspective of the spirit.
As it is, Ryan’s score doesn’t significantly detract from the experience, instead creating an ethereal presence of pianos and violins that comfortably support the impressive core performances. Lucy Liu is given the chance to delve into a motherly figure in a way that she hasn’t had the opportunity before, while Chris Sullivan makes a firm statement as a leading man on film outside of his work on TV. Callina Liang and Eddy Maday equally impress with performances that reflect the emotionally complex existences their characters find themselves in.
Presence is an impressive continuation of Soderbergh’s career-long experiment of testing how the form of filmmaking impacts its intended function: a satisfying emotional experience for audiences. What results then is a captivating experience driven by a narrative that’s compelling to its final frame.
Director: Steven Soderbergh
Cast: Lucy Liu, Chris Sullivan, Eddy Maday, Callina Liang
Writer: David Koepp
Producers: Julie M. Andersen, Ken Meyer
Composer: Zack Ryan
Cinematographer: Steven Soderbergh (as Peter Andrews)
Editor: Steven Soderbergh (as Mary Ann Bernard)
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