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Not so long ago, artificial intelligence was more of a sci-fi punchline than a powerhouse. Robots were clunky, glitch-prone and about as emotionally intelligent as a toaster. They were exceedingly unimpressive, tripping over their own circuits, while repeating themselves like broken records. They gave us a glimpse of a future that always seemed just out of reach- while reassuring us that the robot uprising was at least a few centuries away.
Then, seemingly overnight, AI levelled up. Gone are the days of mechanical goofballs- today's AI can chat, create and even mimic human emotions with eerie precision. It's evolving at a pace that makes Moore's Law look sluggish. What once felt like the distant future is now at our doorstep, knocking- perhaps a little too confidently.
Once, this was the stuff of sci-fi horror. Now, it's a frightening reality. Drew Hancock's darkly comic 'Companion' taps into these anxieties, spinning them into a nightmare that might be closer than we think. It centres on Iris and her boyfriend Josh, who are spending a weekend getaway with some of his friends at the home of a Russian billionaire. Soon, events take a dark, unexpected turn; and none of their lives will ever be the same again.
It must be said upfront that the film suffers from one of the most spoiler-heavy trailers in recent memory. Much like the ones for 2024's 'Abigail,' it divulges far too much of the plot, undercutting moments that would have otherwise been shocking. Again and again throughout the film, scenes meant to be surprising lose their edge when you already know what's coming. While 'Companion' still manages to build tension in other ways, one can't help but wonder how much more effective it would have been had the marketing held back.
It is a shame, as, despite that, the film is suspenseful and entertaining. A little like the cinematic love-child of 'The Stepford Wives' and Spike Jonze's 'Her,' it is a delightfully dark trip from start to finish. Hancock has a good ear for dialogue, and his central two characters are believable creations. In addition, interesting themes are explored, such as empowerment, the complexities of relationships and the blurred line between technological convenience and human dependence.
The film explores how people seek connection, the ways in which technology fills emotional voids and the unsettling possibility that, at some point, we may no longer be able to distinguish between real intimacy and artificial affection. It also examines the ways in which AI, designed to serve and assist, can just as easily manipulate, control or replace human agency entirely. The film raises questions about autonomy- how much control we truly have over our own lives when technology becomes deeply ingrained in our daily existence.
At its core, however, the film is a story of female empowerment. The film follows Iris, a woman navigating oppressive dynamics, whether they be in her relationship with Josh or within a broader system seeking to control her. Hancock's narrative explores the idea of breaking free- not just from AI-driven manipulation, but from toxic relationships that strip women of their independence. Iris- as well as Kat, the other female character- is not just a victim of circumstance; they are active participants in reclaiming their agency, making choices that challenge the forces trying to confine them.
Yet, while the film is thematically rich and often gripping, it isn't without its flaws. Beyond the aforementioned issues with the trailers, the film isn't exactly unpredictable. Even without prior knowledge of the plot, many of its twists feel telegraphed, especially for seasoned genre fans. Additionally, some secondary characters come across as caricatures rather than fully realized individuals, which lessens the emotional impact of their fates. Given the strength of its themes, a little more narrative unpredictability and character depth could have elevated 'Companion' even further.
Visually, the film is just as striking as it is thematically compelling, boasting a sleek, polished aesthetic mirroring its exploration of technology's grip on human lives. Eli Born's cinematography plays a crucial role in establishing mood and tension, with sharp, precise framing often isolating characters, reinforcing themes of control and surveillance. The lighting choices are equally effective, contrasting cold, artificial tones with warmer, more natural hues to reflect the struggle between human connection and technological dominance.
Moreover, Scott Kuzio's production design further amplifies the film's themes, with sleek, minimalist interiors feeling both luxurious and unnervingly sterile- environments that seem designed more for observation than comfort. In addition, Brett W. Bachman and Josh Ethier's editing is tight and purposeful, maintaining a brisk pace while allowing tension to simmer in quieter moments. Complementing all of this is the score from Hrishikesh Hirway, which pulses with an eerie, electronic undercurrent of unease. He also makes great use of songs from the likes of Labi Siffre and The Turtles, among others.
At the heart of the film is a standout performance from the lead, Sophie Thatcher, as Iris. She brings a palpable sense of vulnerability and strength to the role, capturing Iris's internal conflict as she navigates the oppressive forces in both her relationship and the world around her. There's an authenticity to her portrayal of a woman slowly realizing her power- her nuanced performance elevates the emotional stakes, especially in scenes where Iris battles between autonomy and submission.
Jack Quaid is similarly good as Josh, playing a character whose outward "nice guy" persona hides more complex and troubling layers. Quaid subtly explores the tension between Josh's surface-level charm and the insecurity and control he struggles to conceal. Lukas Gage and Megan Suri both do strong work as Patrick and Kat, two of Josh's friends, even if their characters lack depth. Furthermore, Rupert Friend is terrific as Sergey, the Russian billionaire, clearly having a ball with the material and character.
In conclusion, Drew Hancock's 'Companion' is an entertaining, if not particularly unpredictable, dark-comedy. Although it might want for unexpected moments, and some of the secondary characters lack depth, Hancock's narrative is engaging, and his exploration of the themes therein are compelling. Boasting fine cinematography, as well as a stirring score and terrific performances- especially those of Sophie Thatcher, Jack Quaid and Rupert Friend- 'Companion' is a timely reminder that, while we may fear AI, it's really humans we should watch out for.
Then, seemingly overnight, AI levelled up. Gone are the days of mechanical goofballs- today's AI can chat, create and even mimic human emotions with eerie precision. It's evolving at a pace that makes Moore's Law look sluggish. What once felt like the distant future is now at our doorstep, knocking- perhaps a little too confidently.
Once, this was the stuff of sci-fi horror. Now, it's a frightening reality. Drew Hancock's darkly comic 'Companion' taps into these anxieties, spinning them into a nightmare that might be closer than we think. It centres on Iris and her boyfriend Josh, who are spending a weekend getaway with some of his friends at the home of a Russian billionaire. Soon, events take a dark, unexpected turn; and none of their lives will ever be the same again.
It must be said upfront that the film suffers from one of the most spoiler-heavy trailers in recent memory. Much like the ones for 2024's 'Abigail,' it divulges far too much of the plot, undercutting moments that would have otherwise been shocking. Again and again throughout the film, scenes meant to be surprising lose their edge when you already know what's coming. While 'Companion' still manages to build tension in other ways, one can't help but wonder how much more effective it would have been had the marketing held back.
It is a shame, as, despite that, the film is suspenseful and entertaining. A little like the cinematic love-child of 'The Stepford Wives' and Spike Jonze's 'Her,' it is a delightfully dark trip from start to finish. Hancock has a good ear for dialogue, and his central two characters are believable creations. In addition, interesting themes are explored, such as empowerment, the complexities of relationships and the blurred line between technological convenience and human dependence.
The film explores how people seek connection, the ways in which technology fills emotional voids and the unsettling possibility that, at some point, we may no longer be able to distinguish between real intimacy and artificial affection. It also examines the ways in which AI, designed to serve and assist, can just as easily manipulate, control or replace human agency entirely. The film raises questions about autonomy- how much control we truly have over our own lives when technology becomes deeply ingrained in our daily existence.
At its core, however, the film is a story of female empowerment. The film follows Iris, a woman navigating oppressive dynamics, whether they be in her relationship with Josh or within a broader system seeking to control her. Hancock's narrative explores the idea of breaking free- not just from AI-driven manipulation, but from toxic relationships that strip women of their independence. Iris- as well as Kat, the other female character- is not just a victim of circumstance; they are active participants in reclaiming their agency, making choices that challenge the forces trying to confine them.
Yet, while the film is thematically rich and often gripping, it isn't without its flaws. Beyond the aforementioned issues with the trailers, the film isn't exactly unpredictable. Even without prior knowledge of the plot, many of its twists feel telegraphed, especially for seasoned genre fans. Additionally, some secondary characters come across as caricatures rather than fully realized individuals, which lessens the emotional impact of their fates. Given the strength of its themes, a little more narrative unpredictability and character depth could have elevated 'Companion' even further.
Visually, the film is just as striking as it is thematically compelling, boasting a sleek, polished aesthetic mirroring its exploration of technology's grip on human lives. Eli Born's cinematography plays a crucial role in establishing mood and tension, with sharp, precise framing often isolating characters, reinforcing themes of control and surveillance. The lighting choices are equally effective, contrasting cold, artificial tones with warmer, more natural hues to reflect the struggle between human connection and technological dominance.
Moreover, Scott Kuzio's production design further amplifies the film's themes, with sleek, minimalist interiors feeling both luxurious and unnervingly sterile- environments that seem designed more for observation than comfort. In addition, Brett W. Bachman and Josh Ethier's editing is tight and purposeful, maintaining a brisk pace while allowing tension to simmer in quieter moments. Complementing all of this is the score from Hrishikesh Hirway, which pulses with an eerie, electronic undercurrent of unease. He also makes great use of songs from the likes of Labi Siffre and The Turtles, among others.
At the heart of the film is a standout performance from the lead, Sophie Thatcher, as Iris. She brings a palpable sense of vulnerability and strength to the role, capturing Iris's internal conflict as she navigates the oppressive forces in both her relationship and the world around her. There's an authenticity to her portrayal of a woman slowly realizing her power- her nuanced performance elevates the emotional stakes, especially in scenes where Iris battles between autonomy and submission.
Jack Quaid is similarly good as Josh, playing a character whose outward "nice guy" persona hides more complex and troubling layers. Quaid subtly explores the tension between Josh's surface-level charm and the insecurity and control he struggles to conceal. Lukas Gage and Megan Suri both do strong work as Patrick and Kat, two of Josh's friends, even if their characters lack depth. Furthermore, Rupert Friend is terrific as Sergey, the Russian billionaire, clearly having a ball with the material and character.
In conclusion, Drew Hancock's 'Companion' is an entertaining, if not particularly unpredictable, dark-comedy. Although it might want for unexpected moments, and some of the secondary characters lack depth, Hancock's narrative is engaging, and his exploration of the themes therein are compelling. Boasting fine cinematography, as well as a stirring score and terrific performances- especially those of Sophie Thatcher, Jack Quaid and Rupert Friend- 'Companion' is a timely reminder that, while we may fear AI, it's really humans we should watch out for.
There is no one quite like Takashi Miike. His films drag you kicking and screaming into the bowels of the subconscious, wading through the darkest recesses of the mind to a place where sanity fears to tread. Unsettlingly unique, with a twisted sense of humour that often feels like it's laughing in your face, Miike's vision is as disturbing as it is unforgettable. Over the years, his films- from 'Visitor Q' and 'Gozu' to 'As the Gods Will'- have defied genre conventions, electrifying audiences with their marvellous madness.
Miike's penchant for defying expectation reaches its peak with 'Audition,' a film that lulls you into a false sense of comfort before pulling the rug out from under you. What begins as a seemingly innocent tale of romance and second chances morphs into a terrifying exploration of obsession, manipulation and the dark side of human desire. Here Miike's mastery of suspense and psychological horror truly comes to the fore, leaving one both mesmerized and petrified.
Based on a Ryû Murakami novel, and with a screenplay by Daisuke Tengan, it follows Shigeharu Aoyama, a widower whose friend suggests a peculiar way to help him find a new wife: by holding auditions for a role in a fictional television series. The women who try out are unaware of the true purpose behind the casting call. Shigeharu eventually chooses the soft-spoken Asami Yamazaki, setting in motion a twisted game of deception and violence that will inevitably lead to disaster.
At its core, the film is a masterclass on how to slowly unravel a narrative, building tension and suspense without relying on conventional horror tropes. Miike takes his time, establishing Shigeharu's loneliness and sincere longing for companionship. The film lures the audience into a false sense of security, mirroring Shigeharu's delusions around his search for love. While hiding the darker reality beneath the surface as the story progresses, the sense of dread becomes palpable, shifting from subtle unease to outright terror.
'Audition' also explores the complex themes of desire, control and the power dynamics at play in relationships, especially those rooted in objectification and manipulation. Shigeharu's superficial approach to finding a partner- viewing his auditionee wives as interchangeable- serves as a critique of the commodification of intimacy. Asami, on the other hand, embodies a darker form of agency, using her past trauma and quiet demeanour to manipulate, ultimately controlling the narrative. Their twisted dance of dominance and submission drives the film towards its nightmarish climax.
On a deeper level, the film also functions as a profound meditation on the complex psychological dynamics between its central characters. Shigeharu, driven by grief and loneliness, initially approaches his search for a wife with the same detached objectivity as a casting director. His blind desire for companionship renders him complicit in the very horrors he unknowingly sets in motion.
Asami, in contrast, exemplifies a darker form of agency. Having internalized her trauma, she uses it as a means of control. Her silence and reserve are deceptive, masking a raging inner world. She is all too ready to manipulate Shigeharu, ultimately shaping their shared fate. The film suggests that the consequences of human desire are not just about the object of that desire but the desperate lengths one may go to, to satisfy it.
Miike also taps into the cultural undercurrent of late 1990's Japan, where traditional views on marriage and the commodification of women were being questioned in the face of modernization. This social context adds an extra layer of critique, positioning Shigeharu's objectification of the women he auditions as a reflection of broader societal attitudes toward relationships, intimacy and gender roles. The film's eerie depiction of marriage as a transaction- rather than a partnership based on mutual respect- resonates with these cultural critiques, making 'Audition' a chilling commentary on the commodification of love itself.
The film's atmosphere is one of its most potent weapons. Miike expertly shifts from serene, almost ordinary moments to escalating chaos, often without warning. The tension between the mundanity of Shigeharu's life- his attempts to fill the void left by his wife and the horrific events brewing beneath the surface- keeps the audience constantly on edge. The film's deliberate pace allows dread to build as we slowly uncover the dark realities of both Shigeharu's search for companionship and Asami's tortured past. This slow burn makes the eventual explosion of violence all the more shocking and impactful.
Alongside cinematographer Hideo Yamamoto, Miike's use of sound and visual style is crucial in creating the film's suffocating atmosphere. The muted colours and empty spaces of the early scenes are contrasted by the sudden, jarring violence that erupts later, making each disturbing moment all the more visceral. Moreover, Kôji Endô's haunting, unsettling score and the quiet, eerie silences contribute to a pervasive feeling of unease. Miike's decision to focus on small, often uncomfortable details- a close-up of a hand, a long, lingering shot of a man in a wheelchair- forces one to become complicit in the horror, deepening the nightmare.
Ryo Ishibashi stars as Shigeharu, opposite Eihi Shiina's Asami. Ishibashi gives a nuanced performance, subtly embodying the character's growing desperation and vulnerability. His portrayal of a man who, while seeking genuine companionship, remains oblivious to the dark forces at play, draws one in, making his eventual fate all the more chilling. Ishibashi's ability to shift from a seemingly benign, fatherly figure to a man trapped in his own naïve desires heightens the emotional stakes of the film.
Shiina, meanwhile, delivers a hauntingly quiet, yet intensely unsettling performance. With minimal dialogue, she conveys a wealth of emotion through her eyes and body language, imbuing Asami with an air of mystery and quiet menace. Her transformation from a seemingly delicate, almost fragile woman to a vengeful force of nature is chilling. Shiina's performance is key to the film's eerie atmosphere, capturing the tension simmering beneath the surface until it erupts into full-blown terror. In addition, the supporting cast do routinely strong work, notably Jun Kunimura and Renji Ishibashi as Shigeharu's friend and a wheel-chair bound creep, respectfully.
Comparing it to other psychological thrillers of its time, such as David Fincher's 'Seven', Miike's film stands out for its unflinching commitment to horror transcending mere shock value. Unlike other films relying on conventional narrative arcs, 'Audition' takes its time unravelling the tension, making its violent payoff all the more harrowing. It remains one of the most unique, unnerving psychological thrillers of its era, cementing Miike's legacy as a director who not only defies genre conventions but also reshapes them, with a pickaxe to the head.
In conclusion, Takashi Miike's 'Audition' is a masterpiece of the macabre. Well-written and strikingly shot, it draws you into a nightmare where escape seems impossible. Hard to forget, the performances- especially Eihi Shiina's as Asami- are remarkable. Miike doesn't just push the boundaries of horror; he shatters them, leaving behind a film that is as unforgettable as it is unsettling. 'Audition' stands as a testament to his unrelenting creativity, proving that horror can be both terrifying and thought-provoking- an experience that lingers long after the credits roll.
Miike's penchant for defying expectation reaches its peak with 'Audition,' a film that lulls you into a false sense of comfort before pulling the rug out from under you. What begins as a seemingly innocent tale of romance and second chances morphs into a terrifying exploration of obsession, manipulation and the dark side of human desire. Here Miike's mastery of suspense and psychological horror truly comes to the fore, leaving one both mesmerized and petrified.
Based on a Ryû Murakami novel, and with a screenplay by Daisuke Tengan, it follows Shigeharu Aoyama, a widower whose friend suggests a peculiar way to help him find a new wife: by holding auditions for a role in a fictional television series. The women who try out are unaware of the true purpose behind the casting call. Shigeharu eventually chooses the soft-spoken Asami Yamazaki, setting in motion a twisted game of deception and violence that will inevitably lead to disaster.
At its core, the film is a masterclass on how to slowly unravel a narrative, building tension and suspense without relying on conventional horror tropes. Miike takes his time, establishing Shigeharu's loneliness and sincere longing for companionship. The film lures the audience into a false sense of security, mirroring Shigeharu's delusions around his search for love. While hiding the darker reality beneath the surface as the story progresses, the sense of dread becomes palpable, shifting from subtle unease to outright terror.
'Audition' also explores the complex themes of desire, control and the power dynamics at play in relationships, especially those rooted in objectification and manipulation. Shigeharu's superficial approach to finding a partner- viewing his auditionee wives as interchangeable- serves as a critique of the commodification of intimacy. Asami, on the other hand, embodies a darker form of agency, using her past trauma and quiet demeanour to manipulate, ultimately controlling the narrative. Their twisted dance of dominance and submission drives the film towards its nightmarish climax.
On a deeper level, the film also functions as a profound meditation on the complex psychological dynamics between its central characters. Shigeharu, driven by grief and loneliness, initially approaches his search for a wife with the same detached objectivity as a casting director. His blind desire for companionship renders him complicit in the very horrors he unknowingly sets in motion.
Asami, in contrast, exemplifies a darker form of agency. Having internalized her trauma, she uses it as a means of control. Her silence and reserve are deceptive, masking a raging inner world. She is all too ready to manipulate Shigeharu, ultimately shaping their shared fate. The film suggests that the consequences of human desire are not just about the object of that desire but the desperate lengths one may go to, to satisfy it.
Miike also taps into the cultural undercurrent of late 1990's Japan, where traditional views on marriage and the commodification of women were being questioned in the face of modernization. This social context adds an extra layer of critique, positioning Shigeharu's objectification of the women he auditions as a reflection of broader societal attitudes toward relationships, intimacy and gender roles. The film's eerie depiction of marriage as a transaction- rather than a partnership based on mutual respect- resonates with these cultural critiques, making 'Audition' a chilling commentary on the commodification of love itself.
The film's atmosphere is one of its most potent weapons. Miike expertly shifts from serene, almost ordinary moments to escalating chaos, often without warning. The tension between the mundanity of Shigeharu's life- his attempts to fill the void left by his wife and the horrific events brewing beneath the surface- keeps the audience constantly on edge. The film's deliberate pace allows dread to build as we slowly uncover the dark realities of both Shigeharu's search for companionship and Asami's tortured past. This slow burn makes the eventual explosion of violence all the more shocking and impactful.
Alongside cinematographer Hideo Yamamoto, Miike's use of sound and visual style is crucial in creating the film's suffocating atmosphere. The muted colours and empty spaces of the early scenes are contrasted by the sudden, jarring violence that erupts later, making each disturbing moment all the more visceral. Moreover, Kôji Endô's haunting, unsettling score and the quiet, eerie silences contribute to a pervasive feeling of unease. Miike's decision to focus on small, often uncomfortable details- a close-up of a hand, a long, lingering shot of a man in a wheelchair- forces one to become complicit in the horror, deepening the nightmare.
Ryo Ishibashi stars as Shigeharu, opposite Eihi Shiina's Asami. Ishibashi gives a nuanced performance, subtly embodying the character's growing desperation and vulnerability. His portrayal of a man who, while seeking genuine companionship, remains oblivious to the dark forces at play, draws one in, making his eventual fate all the more chilling. Ishibashi's ability to shift from a seemingly benign, fatherly figure to a man trapped in his own naïve desires heightens the emotional stakes of the film.
Shiina, meanwhile, delivers a hauntingly quiet, yet intensely unsettling performance. With minimal dialogue, she conveys a wealth of emotion through her eyes and body language, imbuing Asami with an air of mystery and quiet menace. Her transformation from a seemingly delicate, almost fragile woman to a vengeful force of nature is chilling. Shiina's performance is key to the film's eerie atmosphere, capturing the tension simmering beneath the surface until it erupts into full-blown terror. In addition, the supporting cast do routinely strong work, notably Jun Kunimura and Renji Ishibashi as Shigeharu's friend and a wheel-chair bound creep, respectfully.
Comparing it to other psychological thrillers of its time, such as David Fincher's 'Seven', Miike's film stands out for its unflinching commitment to horror transcending mere shock value. Unlike other films relying on conventional narrative arcs, 'Audition' takes its time unravelling the tension, making its violent payoff all the more harrowing. It remains one of the most unique, unnerving psychological thrillers of its era, cementing Miike's legacy as a director who not only defies genre conventions but also reshapes them, with a pickaxe to the head.
In conclusion, Takashi Miike's 'Audition' is a masterpiece of the macabre. Well-written and strikingly shot, it draws you into a nightmare where escape seems impossible. Hard to forget, the performances- especially Eihi Shiina's as Asami- are remarkable. Miike doesn't just push the boundaries of horror; he shatters them, leaving behind a film that is as unforgettable as it is unsettling. 'Audition' stands as a testament to his unrelenting creativity, proving that horror can be both terrifying and thought-provoking- an experience that lingers long after the credits roll.
Throughout his career, Steven Soderbergh has dabbled in many different genres, to varying degrees of success. Take a glance at his filmography, and you'll see thrillers, dramas, comedies- an eclectic mixture of movies. From the tantalizing intrigue of 'Sex, Lies, and Videotape,' to the silly hijinks of the 'Ocean's Eleven' movies and the brilliant biopic 'Behind the Candelabra,' Soderbergh refuses to be pigeonholed. Although sometimes he faulters- 'Full Frontal' didn't really work and 'The Laundromat' was exceedingly underwhelming- generally his films are worth a watch.
His newest, 'Presence,' is not. Billed as a psychological horror, the film follows the Payne family's move to a new home. From the outset, there are cracks in their individual relationships, which become heightened when the daughter, Chloe, starts feeling a presence within the building. Is the mysterious entity a mischievous ghost, is Chloe suffering from some kind of mental illness, or is something completely different afoot?
David Koepp wrote the screenplay, and, in fairness, he eschews many of the traditional tropes found within haunted house flicks. However, he also avoids anything remotely thrilling, profound or engaging. It is less horror and more teen drama, and a slow-moving one at that, with caricatures instead of characters as well as dialogue that sounds like bad improv. Further, proceedings come to a halt so abruptly it makes one feel that he lost the pages for his original ending, deciding to make one up on the spot.
As an aside, there is a serious problem regarding the film's marketing. Watch the trailers, and you see ads for a horror movie. You are promised it will "terrify" and is "frightening." You are not told it is about as frightening as a tortoise chasing a snail, and somehow not as fast-paced. The trailers are deliberately misleading, which can only lead to disappointment. (Anecdotally, during the screening this reviewer attended, two people walked out after the first twenty-five minutes, while a young woman loudly denounced Soderbergh for lying during the end credits, claiming she was more scared when she looked in a mirror).
The film does not deliver what it said on the tin. It is a melodrama, essentially, with a ghost thrown in for a bit of flavour. Despite that, there are some interesting moments and canny observations. The portrayal of the mother's complex relationships with her two children rings true, capturing the nuances of family dynamics with authenticity. Similarly, her strained interactions with the father provide a poignant look into the cracks that form in a marriage under pressure.
In addition, Soderbergh's cinematography is striking. Each scene is captured in a single, unbroken take, immersing the audience in a continuous flow of tension and unease. This technique cleverly blurs the line between observer and participant, making the audience feel as if they themselves are the Presence, silently witnessing the unravelling of the Payne family's life like some kind of ghostly voyeur.
However, the scene transitions are jarring, each capped off with a cut to black that feels like the work of a film-student who hasn't got the hang of editing. This feels disjointed and less polished than one would expect from a director of Soderburgh's calibre. In addition, the pacing is laboriously slow, meaning the film suffers from a dearth of momentum or drive. At 84 minutes, it is a short film; Soderberg's editing makes it drag.
Conversely, April Lasky's minimalist production design deserves mention. She and her team have meticulously crafted the Payne family's new home to be both inviting and subtly disquieting. The house itself feels lived-in, cluttered bedrooms full of personal touches giving it an air of authenticity. Imogen Lee's set decoration, from the furniture to the family photos on the walls, helps ground the story in a palpable reality. Furthermore, Zack Ryan's muted score is quite brilliant, subtly creating an eerie sense of dread (that Koepp's narrative sorely lacks) drifting throughout the film like a malign wind.
Moreover, Lucy Liu delivers a compelling portrayal of the mother, grappling with her strained relationships and the growing tension within the family. Her nuanced performance captures the emotional turmoil and complexity of her character, bringing an authenticity that grounds the story amidst the supernatural elements. Chris Sullivan is similarly strong as the father, bringing to life his insecurities with ease. He creates a character that feels well-rounded, despite Koepp's limited characterisation.
On the other hand, as Chloe, Callina Liang comes across as a bit wooden, lacking the emotional range to fully engage the audience. Although by no means terrible, Liang's overall performance feels flat and she fails to elevate the character into someone compelling. Eddy Maday's work as her brother is similarly unexceptional. Further, West Mulholland is insidiously smug and one-note as Ryan, an acquaintance of Chloe's. He isn't given much of a chance, though, lumbered with the most awkward lines in the film; which he recites unconvincingly, as if he were in a bad school-play he didn't fully understand.
In conclusion, Steven Soderbergh's 'Presence' is far away from his best work. Although there are some notable elements, such as striking cinematography and strong performances from Lucy Liu and Chris Sullivan, the film ultimately fails to deliver on its promise of psychological horror. David Koepp's screenplay lacks both thrills and depth, resulting in a slow-moving teen melodrama with caricatures instead of compelling characters. In short, despite a few praise-worthy elements, 'Presence' doesn't leave much of an impression.
His newest, 'Presence,' is not. Billed as a psychological horror, the film follows the Payne family's move to a new home. From the outset, there are cracks in their individual relationships, which become heightened when the daughter, Chloe, starts feeling a presence within the building. Is the mysterious entity a mischievous ghost, is Chloe suffering from some kind of mental illness, or is something completely different afoot?
David Koepp wrote the screenplay, and, in fairness, he eschews many of the traditional tropes found within haunted house flicks. However, he also avoids anything remotely thrilling, profound or engaging. It is less horror and more teen drama, and a slow-moving one at that, with caricatures instead of characters as well as dialogue that sounds like bad improv. Further, proceedings come to a halt so abruptly it makes one feel that he lost the pages for his original ending, deciding to make one up on the spot.
As an aside, there is a serious problem regarding the film's marketing. Watch the trailers, and you see ads for a horror movie. You are promised it will "terrify" and is "frightening." You are not told it is about as frightening as a tortoise chasing a snail, and somehow not as fast-paced. The trailers are deliberately misleading, which can only lead to disappointment. (Anecdotally, during the screening this reviewer attended, two people walked out after the first twenty-five minutes, while a young woman loudly denounced Soderbergh for lying during the end credits, claiming she was more scared when she looked in a mirror).
The film does not deliver what it said on the tin. It is a melodrama, essentially, with a ghost thrown in for a bit of flavour. Despite that, there are some interesting moments and canny observations. The portrayal of the mother's complex relationships with her two children rings true, capturing the nuances of family dynamics with authenticity. Similarly, her strained interactions with the father provide a poignant look into the cracks that form in a marriage under pressure.
In addition, Soderbergh's cinematography is striking. Each scene is captured in a single, unbroken take, immersing the audience in a continuous flow of tension and unease. This technique cleverly blurs the line between observer and participant, making the audience feel as if they themselves are the Presence, silently witnessing the unravelling of the Payne family's life like some kind of ghostly voyeur.
However, the scene transitions are jarring, each capped off with a cut to black that feels like the work of a film-student who hasn't got the hang of editing. This feels disjointed and less polished than one would expect from a director of Soderburgh's calibre. In addition, the pacing is laboriously slow, meaning the film suffers from a dearth of momentum or drive. At 84 minutes, it is a short film; Soderberg's editing makes it drag.
Conversely, April Lasky's minimalist production design deserves mention. She and her team have meticulously crafted the Payne family's new home to be both inviting and subtly disquieting. The house itself feels lived-in, cluttered bedrooms full of personal touches giving it an air of authenticity. Imogen Lee's set decoration, from the furniture to the family photos on the walls, helps ground the story in a palpable reality. Furthermore, Zack Ryan's muted score is quite brilliant, subtly creating an eerie sense of dread (that Koepp's narrative sorely lacks) drifting throughout the film like a malign wind.
Moreover, Lucy Liu delivers a compelling portrayal of the mother, grappling with her strained relationships and the growing tension within the family. Her nuanced performance captures the emotional turmoil and complexity of her character, bringing an authenticity that grounds the story amidst the supernatural elements. Chris Sullivan is similarly strong as the father, bringing to life his insecurities with ease. He creates a character that feels well-rounded, despite Koepp's limited characterisation.
On the other hand, as Chloe, Callina Liang comes across as a bit wooden, lacking the emotional range to fully engage the audience. Although by no means terrible, Liang's overall performance feels flat and she fails to elevate the character into someone compelling. Eddy Maday's work as her brother is similarly unexceptional. Further, West Mulholland is insidiously smug and one-note as Ryan, an acquaintance of Chloe's. He isn't given much of a chance, though, lumbered with the most awkward lines in the film; which he recites unconvincingly, as if he were in a bad school-play he didn't fully understand.
In conclusion, Steven Soderbergh's 'Presence' is far away from his best work. Although there are some notable elements, such as striking cinematography and strong performances from Lucy Liu and Chris Sullivan, the film ultimately fails to deliver on its promise of psychological horror. David Koepp's screenplay lacks both thrills and depth, resulting in a slow-moving teen melodrama with caricatures instead of compelling characters. In short, despite a few praise-worthy elements, 'Presence' doesn't leave much of an impression.