Director Lana Wilson (Miss Americana) had never visited a psychic before shooting Look Into My Eyes, her A24-produced documentary about a group of New York clairvoyants. Her perspective is one of gentle inquiry, but the film eventually reaches far beyond mere curiosity, yielding a deeply resonant work about the ways in which people cope with everything from grief to climate nihilism.
Even if you see spirit-channeling mediums as scammers and bullshit artists, it's hard not to come away changed. Look Into My Eyes neither seeks to expose nor reaffirm the profession, but rather, through suggestion and implication, it explores these people and what they do. In the process, it comes to an empathetic understanding of why — even if the subjects themselves can't see the bigger picture.
It's also incredibly self-reflexive. The movie not only frames psychic readings as a kind of art form, but it also begins to subtly mimic and embody their emotional scope. As it progresses, Wilson's aesthetic approach begins to morph, molding her storytelling lens in potent ways, resulting in one of the most unexpectedly affecting documentaries this year.
The film begins, as most traditional documentaries do, with a series of talking-head interviews. However, its approach to this filmmaking norm is distinctly non-traditional. Instead of cutting away to montages or stock footage for broader context, it stays locked in on each of these segments in long, unbroken close-ups, allowing these secondary subjects — those who seek out psychic readings — to unburden themselves across the table from various self-proclaimed mediums. Some of these clients search for solutions to everyday problems, like a lack of motivation in the face of a rapidly changing world. Others speak strangely and obliquely of traumatic events in their past; a middle-aged nurse recalls having seen a young girl die from a gunshot wound to the head 20 years prior, casually asking her psychic, "How is she?" It would be downright eerie if it weren't so conversational in tone.
The production spent months scouting prospective subjects with street-side offers of lengthy readings before pairing them up with each psychic, none of whom were given information on their clients prior to meeting them. This behind-the-scenes decision making is never shown, but the invisible selection process is part of the movie's sleight of hand. The trick therein doesn't create fiction, but rather, unearths and accentuates the existing, deep-seated drama in people's lives. The frame lingers on loaded questions like "How is she?" just long enough for us to process them before it moves quickly on to the next client, the next clairvoyant, and the next warm, intimate, low-lit space (courtesy of cinematographer Stephen Maing). However, for nearly its first half hour, it barely shows us the faces of its many psychics. Wilson doesn't yet let us look into their eyes, but builds its context through their point of view. These numerous head-on close-ups of clientele eager for answers, willing to shell out cash for some semblance of closure, is the everyday reality of each psychic as seen through their own eyes. All we see of them initially, as they perform their readings, are brief profile shots that shroud them in shadow and mystery.
This makes it seem as though the movie's subjects are people who seek answers from psychics and their ilk. That may even be initially true; some of these interviews come full circle to a place of moving catharsis. However, the purpose of this is to quickly find the value in what these psychics do, presenting it in emotional terms as their clients thank them or break down in tears. This helps immensely when the movie suddenly flips its switch and depicts the rare readings gone wrong, where a few of the psychics' interpretations (of vibes, or spirits, or what have you) lead to perplexed expressions from their clients. Given the positive outcomes the movie does present, that they finally get something wrong feels deeply unfortunate, rather than a chance at mockery.
From there on out, the psychics themselves finally enter the spotlight as the documentary's true subjects. The camera follows these vivid characters home, and to work, and through their most mundane and familiar trials, humanizing them in ways that render the question of "Is what they do real?" both highly irrelevant, and entirely besides the movie's point.
The question it raises instead feels almost accidental, but entirely prescient: To what degree are psychic readings a kind of performance art?
The way the film unfurls information is nearly comical on paper. As each psychic introduces themselves in their private spaces — particularly memorable is a gay white man from the South, whose apartment is cramped and messy — it isn't long before they begin talking about movies, followed by theater, music, and other art forms in which they're deeply invested. Some of them are former or current playwrights. Some like to sing. Others enjoy putting on costumes, while a few of them even continue to audition for roles on TV, having studied acting in grad school.
At no point does the film explicitly comment on this, but it comes up like clockwork during nearly every interview, and is usually telegraphed by the classic film posters on each psychics' wall. One woman, a Queens native who claims to channel the spirits of people's pets (both living and dead) regales the audiences with tales of how John Waters' cinema helped her find herself as an outsider. Another psychic reminisces about watching his favorite movie with his departed brother, and breaks down in tears. Before long, even the amusing predictability of each interview leads to something emotionally revelatory.
Do these psychics see a connection between their love of cinema and performance art and their proclivity for spiritual readings? Some do — one likens it to her improv background, and compares the emotional impulses of both forms — but for the most part, Look Into My Eyes gestures towards the possibility of them being drawn to psychic readings as a means of expression, but doesn't force a didactic conclusion about why. The logistical reality of what they do isn't nearly as vital, in the film's purview, as its emotional reality, which is therapeutic — for their clients, and in many cases, for themselves.
As is the case with actual therapy, there's a racial component to some of the readings too, making the case that the personal experiences and outlooks of each psychic (much like that of therapists) can assist in better understanding clients or patients. One white psychic conceives of a Black woman's trauma only through the lens of pop culture, while a middle-aged Black psychic connects with her young Black client through a more nuanced understanding of his place in white America. Similarly, a Chinese American woman adopted by white parents seeks spiritual answers about belonging, and she finds them at the table of an Asian American psychic who was similarly adopted. Several of these psychic-clients pairings feel fated, and while it's hard to know how much of this was coincidence and how much was research and planning by the production, the outcomes feel both unexpected and satisfying for both parties across the table.
Are the readings themselves accurate? Some might be, though they're usually general enough to depend on interpretation, like a Nostradamus prophecy. If you go into Look Into My Eyes as a believer in clairvoyance, you'll likely have that belief reflected back to you, just as skeptics might latch on to the more performative aspect of these readings, or the few which happen to be wrong. However, seeing the way each psychic's story plays out, between the search for meaning in their own lives and the ways in which they try to make sense of the world, renders any sense of journalistic investigation moot. Look Into My Eyes is pure sensation.
The film is also a mischievous bait-and-switch by Wilson, who uses its visual and narrative transformations to turn the psychics' lenses back on themselves — and the movie's lens on itself as well.
The film eventually evolves into an intimate sit-down with several mediums in private spaces as they unburden themselves; this neatly mirrors its lengthy prologue, the initial half hour or so in which various clients do the same. During that extended introduction, the psychics are rarely seen or heard, and since the camera meets their clients' gaze, it essentially embodies the psychics' own POV, granting them a sense of narrative control.
But the moment Wilson begins focusing on the psychics as subjects in front of the camera — the instant the lens probes further and deeper than a profile shot — that sense of control at the table, during their readings, is all but stripped away. They become not only the movie's central subjects, but in its visual parlance, they become akin to their clients, lost in search of answers to painful questions in their personal lives.
Some came to the profession as a means to channel and deal with the deaths of people they loved. Others don't even fully believe in the veracity of what they do, but they continue to do it anyway, as though it were a spiritual mission. Like their initial presentation, the filmmaker herself is never seen and is only heard on occasion, but through the mere suggestion of her presence, it becomes hard not to wonder how she feels about each subject, and to what degree she might be judging them, or even manipulating them. At one point, a young psychic turns out to know the deceased person for whom a client requests a reading, and both parties are fascinated by the sense of cosmic coincidence, but the question of whether this was planned by Wilson on some level continues to linger.
In this manner, Look Into My Eyes becomes akin to a psychic reading itself in the most emotionally intimate way, practically forcing believers and skeptics alike to understand something fundamental about the act of clairvoyance, without necessarily lending credence to either belief or skepticism. The psychics speak constantly about the emotional impulses they feel during these readings, which they in turn intuit. Whether strictly "real" or not, this is a kind of wordless understanding that emanates from within them, and is rooted in their own lived experiences. And so, by turning the film's dynamic on its head — by "reading" the psychic subjects, as it were — Wilson practically forces viewers of all stripes to similarly intuit emotional information about their inner lives, based on visual cues and suggestions. The film practically urges us to follow the same emotional logic they employ, which leads them to grand conclusions about people's fate, and their place in the world.
Do the movie posters in the background, on the psychics' walls, mean everything — or nothing at all? No bit of dialogue in Look Into My Eyes pushes viewers towards an answer one way or another. The film features no insert shots of objects or environmental details that suggest either sincerity or irony in its filmmaking. The only context it offers is the people themselves, and how deeply they feel. In the process, whether or not Wilson believes her subjects remains obscured. The movie never tips its hand. It has no tell. Rather, it remains tethered to its subjects for most of its runtime, continuously looking into their eyes so that we might make instinctive connections with them, and better understand their grief and isolation, through a filmic interpretation beyond words.
