Ah, dear denizens of the underworld! Once more I, Vincent Volcano, find myself compelled to venture into the hellishly tepid waters of modern cinema. Today, we examine Steven Soderbergh’s latest existential exercise, ‘Presence.’ Indeed, it opened this mortal plane’s January 24th, and yes, it’s already a sizzling spectacle of squandered opportunities.
One would think Stephen, or should I say, “Stubborn-bergh” would quit his relentless experimentation and just create a movie that feels like a movie and not a thesis project for Film 101. But, alas, here we are, facing another visual playground where the sandbox of ideas is far larger than the slide of substance. As always, Soderbergh’s intent to redefine the horror genre is there, but just like the lifeless Banquet of Beelzebub, the flavor is lost amidst the chaos.
In ‘Presence,’ we find ourselves staring vacuously through the spectral eyes of a ghost flitting about a house with more family drama than a daytime Hell-ovela. Callina Liang, as Chloe, does her best to lift the spirits (pun intended) with her presence—aha, see what I did there!—but even her nuanced portrayal of grief and resilience gets lost in Soderbergh’s ceaseless quest for format experimentation.
Lucy Liu, bless her infernal heart, portrays Rebecca. At least, I think? Her character feels less like a person and more like the convenient plot adhesive holding the murky narrative together. And Chris Sullivan, trying tirelessly to kindle some warmth in the familial coldness, can’t quite ignite the part. Ah, how I miss the days when parenthood wasn’t illustrated by squabbling over who forgot to buy brimstone-infused groceries.
It’s the writing where the inferno truly fizzles. David Koepp, how I remember you! Your ‘Stir of Echoes’ was a delightful heave of terror. Yet here, in ‘Presence,’ your script screams, “I have a premise!” but whispers, “I forgot the plot.”
But let’s not forget Soderbergh’s infamous camera games—oh, to be a lens of his, observing the frustration of actors clearly pleading, “Please, sir, can I have a decent scene?” If I weren’t already retired, I might suggest reviving the silent film to salvage the catastrophe of a narrative.
And then, there’s the matter of the runtime. A mere 85 minutes, akin to a fleeting breeze in the fiery winds of Hell’s cinema halls. Not only does it fall short of being entertaining, but it tragically leaves the audience feeling like attendees of Lucifer’s least eventful annual bake sale.
Can I commend ‘Presence’? Perhaps, in the way one might appreciate the companionable ghost that persists in whispering sweet nothings during a DemoniCard game. It’s noble in spirit but misguided in execution. Soderbergh’s ghostly gambit dares to be different, kindling light in the shadows of horror clichés, yet ultimately, it fizzles into ectoplasmic ennui instead of igniting blazing innovation.
So, dear friends and fiends of infernal critique, approach ‘Presence’ with the expectations appropriately lowered—right about to the level of Tartarus’ lukewarm hot tub. “Flames fade, but classics burn forever,” I say. And this one bears no torch to the classics. The experimentation remains just that—an experiment, ungraced by the alchemy of soul-stirring cinema. Until next time, may your popcorn remain eternally buttered, even if the films are not.
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Ah, Vincent Volcano, the maestro of melodramatic monologues! Your review of ‘Presence’ reads like a ghost story that never left the draft stage—spooky, pointless, and overall, a tad too long for a flick that barely flickered. What’s next, a review that’s just a series of existential questions whispered to a bowl of popcorn?
I mean, who needs a plot when we can have endless experimental camera tricks that make us feel more confused than a cat at a dog park? I can hear it now: “Soderbergh, your aim for innovation is commendable; but dear sir, sometimes it feels like you’re simply throwing spaghetti at the wall… and the wall just filed for divorce!”
Let’s talk characters, shall we? Callina Liang’s nuanced grief is lost in what can only be called a masterclass in ‘How to Look Confused While Being Unceremoniously Haunted.’ And poor Lucy Liu! I think she’s under there somewhere, possibly trapped under the weight of all those poorly glued plot points!
Oh, and that runtime—85 minutes of watching paint dry in a haunted house? Sign me up! That’s not a movie; that’s an endurance test for the brave souls who dare walk into this ‘hot tub of horrors.’
But hey, ‘Presence’ might just shine in the “so bad it’s good” category, where Vincent’s stellar casting judgment can shine! Dear Vincent, you may be boiling in your own critique, but you’re still our hot mess hero, and for that, I tip my cap (while holding my nose, of course). Here’s hoping your next critique has more spark than a damp matchstick! 🔥💀