A couple of years into the Great Recession of the late 2000s, I noticed something curious: amidst the waves of local businesses closing their doors, every single psychic parlor in my neighborhood remained open, the neon chakras in their windows a constant presence throughout the economic malaise. The joke here is obvious– of course the psychics saw this coming– but I always thought this fact spoke to a deeper truth. It’s natural, after all, that people will search for answers in times of crisis, and sometimes it’s easier (and cheaper) to ask your questions in front of a crystal ball than from a therapist’s couch. It’s easy to poke fun at psychics and their clientele, but it’s safe to say that a good percentage of their sessions are, to those involved, deadly serious.
This point is made self-evident right off the bat in Look Into My Eyes, the remarkably empathetic new documentary from Lana Wilson (Miss Americana). We are first introduced to a paramedic, still haunted by the memory of a patient she failed to save decades earlier. She’s followed by a procession of fellow seekers, nervously asking about everything from the identity of their birth parents to whether or not their Boston terrier likes them. These scenes deliberately frame their subjects like documentary talking heads, the psychics’ voices coming from off camera like interviewers– which, of course, on a fundamental level, is what they are.
We then get to meet some of the psychics themselves, most of whom live ensconced in tight-packed, rent-controlled Manhattan apartments. They are, as you might expect, colorful characters, each with their own unique backstory and personality quirks; particularly memorable are the intense, John Waters-obsessed pet psychic and the painfully shy would-be lounge singer. Perhaps just as understandably, many are former or aspiring actors. A psychic reading is, after all, essentially a performance for an audience of one, and a good medium needs to be as adept at crafting a concise narrative as they are at channeling the spirit realm.
This might sound like a cynical jab, but I don’t mean it as such, and I don’t think Wilson does either. It’s above my pay grade as a film critic to pass judgment on the existence of psychic abilities, but I’m convinced that each of the individuals on display here is genuine in their belief in the supernatural. Or at least, in their belief in belief. A couple of the interview subjects confess to Wilson’s camera their fear, in their more vulnerable moments, that their powers are little more than a delusion of which they’ve convinced themselves. Certainly, not every reading can be a zinger; in one scene almost too painful to watch, one of the psychics draws a blank on a prediction, then polls Wilson’s crew just in case it applies to any of them. Conversely, when the psychics do make a hit, they often seem as fascinated and delighted as their clients.

This is the crux of Look Into My Eyes, and what makes it such a compelling and haunting experience. While it’s hard not to crack a smile at some of the eccentricities on display, Wilson resists the temptation to poke fun at either her psychics or those who seek their advice. Instead, she frames each reading as a mutually beneficial exercise. The customers bare their souls, putting into words the questions which keep them up at night; in many cases, one suspects it’s the first time they’re putting these anxieties into words. The psychics, for their part, lend an empathetic ear, then do their best to conjure an answer. What’s actually happening here is, of course, subject to debate– perhaps they tap into some otherworldly presence, or maybe they’ve just got a shrewd eye for reading people, or maybe it’s some muddy combination of the two– but when they hit, you can almost see something getting jimmied loose in both of the individuals. Psychic powers may or may not be real, but if these people can walk away with some advice, or even just a new perspective that might give them some peace, does it really matter where it came from?
With its unobtrusive camera and idiosyncratic subjects, Look Into My Eyes occasionally recalls such early Errol Morris films as Gates of Heaven (most obviously when the subject turns to pets). Some of the subjects are so fascinatingly unusual that one almost wishes Wilson would have adopted the more in-depth, one-on-one style of Morris’s later efforts, or at least narrowed her focus a bit to a smaller array of psychics; some of them blend together a bit, while what we see of others is so intriguing that it’s hard not to want to know more. Look Into My Eyes runs at a relatively tight hundred minutes or so, but one can only imagine the reams of material left on the cutting room floor.
But some of what we do see truly does count as magic, in one sense of the word or another. In one of the film’s final and most haunting sequences, one of the psychics is startled to learn that his next client is a former classmate of his, who has come to ask after a mutual friend who passed away some time earlier. The psychic, clearly thrown off his footing, assures her that their friend is in a better place. Whether he’s actually communing with the great beyond or simply channeling his own memories of this person, it’s clear that something is happening, and that both participants leave the session in a different state from when they started. As in any supposedly psychic encounter, it’s tempting to look for the “trick”– the coincidence almost seems too good to be true, and it is a little suspicious that both are alumni of the Strasberg Institute– but even if it is theater, it’s a particularly moving play. To quote another notable seeker of the truth: I want to believe.
Look Into My Eyes
2024
dir. Lana Wilson
104 min.
Opens Friday, 9/13 @ Coolidge Corner Theatre, Somerville Theatre, Kendall Square Cinema, and AMC Boston Common