The Oscar-winning director Steven Soderbergh announced that he was retiring from filmmaking in 2013. By 2017, he had returned to work, releasing the delightful heist caper Logan Lucky, and in the years since, new Soderbergh films have become as seemingly inevitable as death or taxes. The director has made nine films in the past eight years, encompassing satirical comedies (The Laundromat, High Flying Bird), crime thrillers (No Sudden Move, Kimi), and strange society spoofs (Magic Mike’s Last Dance, Let Them All Talk). What they tend to have in common is the sense that the director made them on a whim: not sloppily, but airily, with Soderbergh always looking for an intriguing way to flesh out a basic tale.

“Airy but intriguing” is the best way to describe his newest film, Presence, too. It’s a haunted-house movie that avoids most of the genre’s  obvious tropes. But Soderbergh’s rapid pace of production (usually by involving small casts and featuring limited plotlines, or sometimes shooting on iPhones) has become both an advantage and a hindrance—it enables him to tell such a wide swath of stories, but all of them feel novella-size. Presence, like much of the director’s recent work, is less an entrée than a charming apéritif, albeit with a couple of smart twists worth ruminating on.

The film is deceptively straightforward: A family of four moves into a new home, and each member wrestles with some personal demon while also encountering whatever’s haunting the place. The clever conceit? We see the events from the perspective of the ghost—or whatever it is that’s watching everybody. Soderbergh and the screenwriter David Koepp—a fellow Hollywood mainstay—don’t tip their hands much about what, exactly, is going on until the film’s final moments. The fixed perspective makes Soderbergh’s camera a character of its own; it spies and swivels around every room, offering a clear perspective but keeping the being’s motivations unknown. It’s a simple visual notion, and yet somewhat unlike anything I’d ever seen before on the big screen.

[Read: The films Steven Soderbergh watches on a loop]

Presence begins in an empty suburban home, the ghost peeking in on the real-estate agent Cece (played by Julia Fox) as she shows an interested family around; soon enough, they’re unpacking boxes, though they all seem out of sorts. There’s the tightly wound mom, Rebekah (Lucy Liu); the depressed dad, Chris (Chris Sullivan), who’s distracted by some unspecified transgression in his past; and two teenage kids: Tyler (Eddy Maday) and Chloe (Callina Liang), both of whom are mourning the recent, tragic loss of a friend. Information comes in dribs and drabs, because the viewers’ sole means of receiving it are through the eyes of this mysterious force. At first, the specter is primarily a static viewer, but eventually, it begins to zip through the house—as does the camera. But only occasionally does the being intentionally provoke a reaction from the tenants it’s peeping on, such as rumbling a table to startle someone; otherwise, it continues to lurk in the corners.

Watching the cinematic action through the eyes of a monster has obviously been done before in movies. The point-of-view shot is usually kept to a bravura scene or two—such as the famous opening sequence of Halloween, and some of the director Brian De Palma’s memorable set pieces. The unseen “star” of Presence, however, is much more low-key than what’s shown in those slasher-film bits of flamboyance; at first, it seems almost afraid to show off any weird poltergeist powers before inching toward what’s happening around it. But the ghost eventually comes to intervene in the family’s life in odd ways and reveals, little by little, why it’s cooped up in the house.

The actual plotting is perfunctory stuff, though Koepp reliably communicates the character dynamics with a few crucial lines of dialogue. Rebekah can’t figure out how to console Chloe; Chloe, in turn, is drawn to one of Tyler’s friends, a classic bad boy named Ryan (West Mulholland)—the kind of romantic mistake many a teen might make, but with a slightly sinister edge. If the story played out more conventionally, it’d probably come off as pretty dull. But the magic of Presence is its feeling of constraint. Viewers can still see everything that’s going on from the first-person angle, allowing them to spot the warning signs that this family might disintegrate into further misery. Locking the audience into the perspective of a noncorporeal form is brilliantly limiting; ghosts are voyeurs, and as unsettling as it is to spy on this family, the far creepier feeling is that of being unable to do anything but watch. Soderbergh uses the barrier of the screen as part of the film’s story—as if to say we can look, but we can’t touch.

[Read: Steven Soderbergh’s ‘crackpot theories’ on how moviegoing has changed]

Although this is all psychologically disconcerting, Presence is hardly a traditional work of horror. There are no big jump scares, the atmosphere is deliberately mundane, and the mood is more melancholic than terrifying. The film is, essentially, a domestic drama with a spooky metatextual twist. And as much as I’m enjoying Soderbergh’s postretirement era—defined by rapid-fire, slender movies—I do sometimes find myself longing for a full meal. Presence runs just 85 minutes long, but it’s a sharp jab to the ribs with a punchy, effective ending. I wonder what Soderbergh might be able to produce if he were willing to slow down and focus on what’s in front of him, instead of always itching to move onto his next experiment.

Shaun Ing and friends used a body bag left over from Halloween to help lift the giant fish.

At a recent holiday assembly, I sat behind a row of parents watching dozens of 9-year-olds in clip-on ties and sequined dresses singing “Sleigh Ride” and other carols. Each of the parents had a phone in hand, diligently recording the event. Some couples coordinated their efforts, one parent taking a video while the other shot still images. They were working so hard to ensure they didn’t miss anything—and yet I worried that they were, in fact, missing out.

Childhood is fleeting. This performance, this soccer game, this romp in the snow will never come again. So I understand the instinct to somehow capture it all, to pin it down like a butterfly. My youngest child is a high-school senior, and my wife and I recently attended our last-ever parent-teacher conference. But the memory of our first such meeting, the two of us seated in tiny preschool chairs, still feels fresh. I can, to this day, recall the tension I felt in my body back then as I wondered about my son: Is he okay? Does he have friends? Will he learn to read? Now the tiny chairs have been replaced by Zoom screens, and all I can think is: Wait! I need more time!

Parents have long sought ways to freeze time as their kids grow, starting with baby books containing footprints and locks of hair. We save report cards, Halloween poems, and gold-starred spelling tests. Our closets overflow with lopsided ceramics and self-portraits. And of course, for as long as technology has allowed us to, we have taken photos and videos.

Today, though, the tech we have constantly at hand has convinced many of us that we must chronicle every moment—that perhaps we would be fools not to. Yet the more I see parents reflexively reaching for their phones, the more I come to believe that when we turn our kids into the subjects of our personal documentaries, we risk muting the richness of the very thing we’re trying to record. We also risk forfeiting an opportunity to really connect with our children.

[Read: Would you pay $1,000 for a family photo?]

I am reminded, for instance, of the parents I’ve seen with phones raised on the soccer-field sideline, preoccupied with angles and lighting rather than enjoying the game—and how so many of them seem to be overlooking the unfiltered delight of the drama right in front of them. I am, I admit, not immune to this impulse. I recall once being so absorbed in recording my daughter’s middle-school hip-hop performance that I missed my own emotional response to it. I came home with a lackluster video, zero sense memory of what had just unfolded, and an unsettling pang of regret.

Phones don’t just separate us from our children. They also isolate us from community, effectively making us alone together. Eyes on our screens, we miss out on what is known as “collective effervescence,” the elevated-heart-rate-and-goosebumps moments that come from shared experiences of suspense, awe, or joy. Think of the swelling of your heart at an exquisite harmony, the knowing glance from another parent in an instant of unintended comedy, or the fleeting eye contact with a child scanning the crowd for reassurance. These are the interactions in which meaning is made.

As I contemplate all this, I can’t help thinking about Thornton Wilder’s Our Town, a play that impresses on its audience exactly how much we miss when we fail to pay attention. In one scene, the ghost of Emily Gibbs returns to the day of her 12th birthday and observes its mundane grace: her mother cooking, neighbors discussing the weather, her younger self searching for a blue hair ribbon. Watching, Emily grows anguished at her mother’s distraction. “Oh, Mama,” she pleads, “just look at me one minute as though you really saw me.” The simple beauty of this tableau leads Emily the ghost to break down sobbing. “It goes so fast … I didn’t realize,” she says. “All that was going on and we never noticed.” Another ghost replies: “That’s what it was to be alive … To spend and waste time as though you had a million years.”

We don’t have a million years. We have only this moment. And for parents, the moment is rarely uncontested; it is squeezed between meetings, errands, and other demands. Sometimes, we miss bedtimes, recitals, or class parties. Other times, we’re physically present but mentally elsewhere, distracted by work or our phones’ incessant alerts—or by the act of creating proof, with our phone cameras, that we were here. It’s true that some distractions are unavoidable. But it’s also true that we have more opportunities to put down our phones than we may think.

Some might argue But my child loves to watch videos of themselves! Perhaps. But I would like to challenge the assumption that this is always a good thing. With their immersion in YouTube, TikTok, and Instagram, kids have become steeped in a culture in which visibility equals validation. Many parents have expressed concern about their children’s use of smartphones and particularly their reliance on social media, about the pressure kids feel to always be “on.” If that is the case, and if they’d like to see their kids break the habit, a good first step is to model the alternative. We can show our kids how to be present in a moment—and then to let it go.

[Read: The perils of ‘sharenting’]

This isn’t to say that we should never record our kids, or that the videos and photos in our phones can’t offer profound, lasting pleasure. One of my favorite videos was shot by my son when he was 8 years old: His 6-year-old sister sits in the back seat of the car, and he trains the camera on her, asking questions. She rolls her eyes but at the same time is clearly seeking to impress him. Their love for each other is palpable, even as they bicker. Neither of them can yet pronounce their r’s, and she sounds as if she’s been inhaling helium. It is magic.

But so much magic occurs off camera—and we don’t need pics to prove it. “Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it?—every, every minute?” Emily asks in Our Town. The Stage Manager replies: “No. The saints and poets, maybe—they do some.” Aspiring to sainthood or poetry feels like an unfair ask. But putting down our phones and fully showing up for our kids is simpler—and might help you feel a lot more human.

So the next time you’re at a recital or game or birthday party, try this: Take a few photos at the beginning, then put your phone away. Keep your eyes on your child, who inevitably will be looking for you. Wait for them to spot you in the audience. Maybe they’ll light up. Maybe they’ll cover their face in embarrassment. Either way, this is the meaningful moment: the minute they will know that you really saw them.