Presence (Steven Soderbergh, 2024)
It’s fitting that I watched Steven Soderbergh’s Presence shortly after writing about Ramell Ross’ Nickel Boys, as the two films showcase the range of cinematic possibilities within the first-person formal conceit. To put it simply, if Ross’ film takes the subjectivity of the lyrical memory film to a narrative and formal extreme, Soderbergh’s film, which takes the perspective of a ghost presiding over a mixed-race family that moves into a centuries-old Los Angeles mansion, is instead concerned with the intimacy afforded by the camera responding in real-time to shocking, pulp narrative.
Presence is characterized by the recognizable humanity of its kindred spirit. Soderbergh shot the film himself, and the camera’s movements are recognizably that of a human say, running across the room, or jerking its head towards a character outburst. Soderbergh has been working with off-kilter digital aesthetics for a while (even shooting two features entirely on iPhone). The unflattering extremity of characters’ bodies, and the distorted wide-angle spaces, often bisected by walls and doorways, work to Presence’s benefit, creating a visceral immediacy that becomes sneakily moving.
The plot at the center of Presence is rather broad-strokes, a choice that works to the film’s detriment even though the wild emotional volatility facilitates the success of the first-person technique. Within the family, tensions are brewing. The mother (Lucy Liu) is facing legal action involving shady business dealings and blatantly prefers her popular, athletic son over her grieving daughter, Chloe, whose best friend passed away from apparent drug overdose. Amidst the fucked-up, caricaturesque family dynamics, a mysterious boy enters Chloe’s life, clearly manipulating her isolation with disturbing ill-intent.
Generally, Presence’s trajectory charts the spirit’s (and presumably the audience’s) investment in the well-being of the characters, especially Chloe. In order to keep the perspective fresh, Soderbergh adds new formal interventions during the film’s pivotal narrative turns. For example, early sequences feature the ghost prowling from window to window, impassively observing movers entering the house, but as the spirit connects with Chloe’s depression, it reveals the ability to pick up objects (not unlike a video game character), arranging her textbooks while she’s in the shower. A lot of the fun of Presence lies in the anticipation of Soderbergh’s next formal twist. The intensity of Chloe’s abandonment and the cartoonish evil of her new boyfriend, make the progressive interferences feel earned. The effect is intimate, therapeutic even. The spirit affirms Chloe’s pain, operating with a general air of paternal concern (even though Chloe projects the presence of her best friend onto it). Shots that would be discomfiting in a Hitchockian fashion (see: the spirit hiding in Chloe’s closet, anxiously watching her have sex with the boyfriend) are largely stripped of voyeuristic intent, distilling the events to upsetting horror. In a way, by presenting the spirit as a incorporeal audience surrogate, and using a reactive approach, Soderbergh turns a surveillance narrative into one of collective empathy. Presence embodies the idea that even in our deepest crises, we’re never truly alone.
Presence is distributed by NEON and is in theaters now.