Movie Review ~ Presence

As a lifelong horror fan, I’ve seen my fair share of haunted houses on screen (and walked through a few in real life).  Through multiple adaptations of Shirley Jackson’s white-knuckle 1959 novel The Haunting of Hill House to Tobe Hooper’s Poltergeist, the genre thrives on the unsettling notion that what we hold sacred may not be safe.  However, after a while, the creaky floorboards and ghostly apparitions blur together in a parade of predictable jump scares.  Then, a film like Steven Soderbergh’s sophisticated ghost story Presence comes along and reminds me why I fell in love with ghost stories in the first place.  It found its way under my skin a year ago and has stayed there ever since.

I first caught Presence at Sundance back in January 2023, watching it with the cast and world premiere audience that seemed to collectively hold its breath for ninety minutes straight (and at least one person who reportedly left because the film was “too intense”).  It hit even harder when I revisited it during a Friday the 13th screening at TIFF nine months later.  This isn’t your standard “things go bump in the night” fare, though plenty of masterfully crafted scares in broad daylight will keep you squirming in your seat.

The setup feels deceptively simple: Rebekah (Lucy Liu, Strange World) and Chris (Chris Sullivan, Agnes) move their two kids, Tyler (Eddy Maday) and Chloe (Callina Liang), into a pristine suburban home.   The move is strategic; Rebekah is banking on a better school district to boost Tyler’s chances at a college sports career.  And on the surface, it’s the kind of house that promises fresh starts, a picture-perfect façade with just enough character to make it feel like a dream.  But us horror fans, we know better.

The unease creeps in before Julia Fox’s (Pvt Chat) unnervingly chipper realtor hands over the keys.   Something feels alive in that house, waiting to welcome the new family, and through Soderbergh’s brilliant camera POV, we see that some family members sense it more than others.   The more emotionally distracted Rebekah and Tyler, wrapped up in their competitive drives, dismiss Chloe’s claims of a ghost-like, odd stillness watching her.   Only Chris really listens to his daughter, understanding that she is still reeling from the recent death of her friend.   She finds another sympathetic ear in Ryan (West Mulholland, Dark Harvest), one of Tyler’s friends dealing with his own demons.  What starts as nagging doubt morphs into bone-deep certainty, and as this force grows bolder in reaching out, the danger ramps up.  The gut-punch finale brings a strange kind of intimate closure while spinning the whole concept of haunting in an unexpected direction.

I’ve consistently been drawn to Liu anytime she’s onscreen, and Soderbergh has handed her a role that plays to one of her strengths– that trademark chilled detachment – while unearthing something entirely new.   There’s a pivotal scene—no spoilers, but it’s unforgettable—where Liu expresses more terror through a single expression than most horror films manage with their entire effects budget.  Sullivan is equally compelling, playing Chris with a quiet tension suggesting his skepticism stems less from logic than his fears of failing as a husband and provider.  Together, they nail the dynamics of a modern couple in crisis, even as supernatural elements creep in.

Known for balancing thrills with intelligence, screenwriter David Koepp (Jurassic Park, Panic Room, Death Becomes Her, plus many more across multiple genres) takes the slow-burn route here.  Rather than assaulting the audience with relentless scares, the film builds tension through quiet moments, unresolved questions, and the subtle disintegration of the family’s fragile dynamic.   Take the medium scene – usually a tired trope in haunted house flicks.  But Natalie Woolams-Torres’s subtle performance and Koepp’s restraint with dialogue turn it into something special.  When she looks directly into the camera (one of the few characters who dares), we know she’s seen it…  and it’s seen her right back.   Do you have goosebumps?  I do. 

Few filmmakers possess the level of technical mastery as Soderbergh (Let Them All Talk), and Presence showcases him at the height of his powers.  As director, cinematographer, and editor, he orchestrates every film element with surgical precision.  The genius of Presence lies in how he transforms the camera into a character – a ghost we never see but always feel.   Watch how it moves: floating up stairs, lingering in doorways, drifting closer during private moments.  This presence feels patient, curious, and sometimes uncomfortably intimate.   Watching how it flinches back when spotted or hovers too long on private conversations tells us everything.   Even basic camera moves become simultaneously beautiful and deeply unsettling in this single location.

Neon’s marketing campaign may promise pulse-pounding terror and even cheap thrills.   Don’t be fooled.   Presence sticks with you.   The questions it raises about memory, grief, and how we interpret the unknown are far scarier than any fleeting jump scare.   Having seen the film twice I was struck by how much Presence reveals on repeat viewings.  Koepp’s script works like a puzzle box, with scenes that click into place differently in hindsight.  Even Soderbergh’s visual choices in framing an actor or specific set piece gain new meaning on rewatch, small details building into something profound.  Their previous collaboration on 2022’s Kimi clearly laid the groundwork, and with Black Bag coming in March, this creative partnership keeps getting stronger.

Though it trades traditional scares for psychological unease, Presence is undeniably chilling.  It forces us to face what we’d rather ignore: the cracks in our relationships, unprocessed grief, and the possibility that we’re never truly alone.  Yes, it’s a ghost story, but not the kind we’re used to.  Soderbergh and Koepp understand that real hauntings aren’t just external – they’re buried in our choices and the truths we run from.