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Review: 'Look Into My Eyes' is a compassionate profile of psychics, not out to scam but connect

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Review: 'Look Into My Eyes' is a compassionate profile of psychics, not out to scam but connect

As Lana Wilson’s documentary about psychics “Look Into My Eyes” opens, a gray New York sky hovers above a nondescript building. A modest yellow glow comes from one high-storied window. Inside, a woman begins telling someone off-camera about a girl’s tragic death, something she’s held onto tightly for 20 years. There’s a question she still needs answered. How is she?

Wilson returns to that exterior building shot at the end of the film, after we’ve witnessed several more interactions and gotten to know a handful of these psychics, many of whom carry around their own unresolved aches. But at the end, the image somehow feels different: That lit window against the big, hard, anxious city conveys a hopeful warmth. It looks comforting.

Coming to “Look Into My Eyes” as a skeptic is only natural, because you’re human. The world of clairvoyants is bizarre and suspicious, and we love docs that pull back the curtain. What’s also universal, however, in these years of global trauma, is the need to address what ails us, and it’s this perspective that informs Wilson’s approach — the same one that imbued grace to her previous documentaries “After Tiller,” about abortion doctors, and “The Departure,” about a turmoil-ridden monk.

Something diverting and affecting emerges from Wilson’s close, considerate and not unskeptical hang with a diverse handful of New York psychics plying their wares and living their lives. You end up believing — not in paranormal powers or some mystical gift, but in the modest building blocks of reaching out. These tucked-away transactions of faith and performance offer, in their own way, a kind of solace.

Wilson’s observational mode is respectful, the multi-camera set-up fixed on hushed, awkward-at-first exchanges as if capturing an important interview where subject and questioner have equal standing. The faces of the clients have nervous smiles as they ask a question or await one, or receive a declaration of a spiritual presence. The psychics, too, betray their own apprehension as things come to them. Will it spark an emotion, bring them nearer to the source of the pain? Or will it go wrong? It comes off as a first dance, where both parties want to avoid stepping on toes or actively leading, yet find a rhythm that matches the music and, most importantly, feels good.

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The exchanges often seem like bids for being heard, where all that’s being sought is a kind, sensible word from the friendly face in front of you. An adoptee wants details about the Chinese birth parents who gave her up. (They were greedy; being adopted can be hard.) A tightly wound woman fears her defiant dog doesn’t like her. (He senses that worry; be calmer.) A young Black man fixates on having learned about his ancestor’s slave price. (Focus on defining your own freedom.)

That assuaging goes both ways, though. The psychics’ own backstories of anguish and loneliness — unsurprisingly, they’re almost all former or still-striving actors — invariably tinge the kind of healing messages given: that a person is unique, that someone can’t change the past, that a lost loved one accepts them, that recognition is just around the corner. Some of the psychics’ lives seem, frankly, precarious, and by a certain point, we glean, quite movingly, that in these sessions, they’re soothing themselves as much as their clients.

In interviews, Wilson can be heard off-camera, gently probing: Is this essentially improv? Their replies aren’t defensive — the psychics rely on an affable confidence in not knowing exactly what is going on, but that something is. As one of them adds, “If it resonates, it doesn’t really matter.”

Human connections are gifts, imagination is powerful and empathy isn’t a trick. These are the things “Look Into My Eyes” patiently communicates to us from its watchful perch. What these freelance healers do may not be professional therapy. But the sensitive, intimate outlet shown in Wilson’s compassionate documentary — one of the year’s best — lets us put our mistrust aside to consider what can be deeply felt from a pretense accepted between willing, receptive souls.

‘Look Into My Eyes’

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Rating: R, for language

Running time: 1 hour, 44 minutes

Playing: In limited release Friday, Sept. 13

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Movie Reviews

Dan Webster reviews “WTO/99”

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Dan Webster reviews “WTO/99”

DAN WEBSTER:

It may now seem like ancient history, especially to younger listeners, but it was only 26 years ago when the streets of Seattle were filled with protesters, police and—ultimately—scenes of what ended up looking like pure chaos.

It is those scenes—put together to form a portrait of what would become known as the “Battle of Seattle” —that documentary filmmaker Ian Bell captures in his powerful documentary feature WTO/99.

We’ve seen any number of documentaries over the decades that report on every kind of social and cultural event from rock concerts to war. And the majority of them follow a typical format: archival footage blended with interviews, both with participants and with experts who provide an informational, often intellectual, perspective.

WTO/99 is something different. Like The Perfect Neighbor, a 2026 Oscar-nominated documentary feature, Bell’s film consists of what could be called found footage. What he has done is amass a series of news reports and personal video recordings into an hour-and-42-minute collection of individual scenes, mostly focused on a several-block area of downtown Seattle.

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That is where a meeting of the WTO, the World Trade Organization, was set to be held between Nov. 30 and Dec. 3, 1999. Delegates from around the world planned to negotiate trade agreements (what else?) at the Washington State Convention and Trade Center.

Months before the meeting, however, a loose coalition of groups—including NGOs, labor unions, student organizations and various others—began their own series of meetings. Their objective was to form ways to protest not just the WTO but, to some of them, the whole idea of a world order they saw as a threat to the economic independence of individual countries.

Bell’s film doesn’t provide much context for all this. What we mostly see are individuals arguing their points of view as they prepare to stop the delegates from even entering the convention center. Meanwhile, Seattle authorities such as then-Mayor Paul Schell and then-Police Chief Norm Stamper—with brief appearances by Gov. Gary Locke and King County Executive Ron Sims—discuss counter measures, with Schell eventually imposing a curfew.

That decision comes, though, after what Bell’s film shows is a peaceful protest evolving into a street fight between people parading and chanting, others chained together and splinter groups intent on smashing the storefronts of businesses owned by what they see as corporate criminals. One intense scene involves a young woman begging those breaking windows to stop and asking them why they’re resorting to violence. In response a lone voice yells their reasoning: “Self-defense.”

Even more intense, though, are the actions of the Seattle police. We see officers using pepper spray, tear gas, flash grenades and other “non-lethal” means such as firing rubber pellets into the crowd. In one scene, a uniformed guy—not identified as a police officer but definitely part of the security crowd, which included National Guardsmen—is shown kicking a guy in the crotch.

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The media, too, can’t avoid criticism. Though we see broadcast reporters trying to capture what was happening—with some affected like everybody else by the tear gas that filled the streets like a winter fog—the reports they air seem sketchy, as if they’re doctors trying to diagnose a serious illness by focusing on individual cells. And the images they capture tend to highlight the violence over the well-meaning actions of the vast majority of protesters.

Reactions to what Bell has put on the screen are bound to vary, based on each viewer’s personal politics. Bell revels his own stance by choosing selectively from among thousands of hours of video coverage to form the narrative he feels best captures what happened those two decades-and-change ago.

If nothing else, WTO/99 does reveal a more comprehensive picture of what happened than we got at the time. And, too, it should prepare us for the future. The way this country is going, we’re bound to see a lot more of the same.

Call it the “Battle for America.”

For Spokane Public Radio, I’m Dan Webster.

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Movies 101 host Dan Webster is the senior film critic for Spokane Public Radio.

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Tommy DeCarlo, Boston fan who became the band’s lead singer, dies at 60

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Tommy DeCarlo, Boston fan who became the band’s lead singer, dies at 60

Tommy DeCarlo, a longtime fan of Boston who became the classic rock band’s lead singer in the late 2000s, has died. He was 60.

DeCarlo died Monday following a battle with brain cancer, his family announced on Facebook.

“[H]e fought with incredible strength and courage right up until the very end,” the family’s statement said. “During this difficult time, we kindly ask that friends and fans respect our family’s privacy as we grieve and support one another.”

Born April 23, 1965, in Utica, N.Y., DeCarlo said he first started listening to Boston — the 1970s rock band known for its instrumental overtures and hits including “More Than a Feeling,” “Don’t Look Back” and “Peace of Mind” — as a young teenager, according to the group’s website. The vocalist credited his love for Boston’s original frontman Brad Delp and his desire to sing along with him on the radio for helping to develop his own singing voice.

After Delp’s death in 2007, DeCarlo, then a manager at a Home Depot, sent a link to his MySpace page filled with Boston covers as well as an original song in tribute to Delp to the Boston camp, hoping for a chance to participate in a tribute show for the singer. They kindly turned down his offer.

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But eventually, Boston founder and lead songwriter Tom Scholz heard DeCarlo’s cover of “Don’t Look Back” and invited the singer to perform a few songs with the band at the tribute. That tribute show would be DeCarlo’s first time ever performing with any band in front of a crowd, but it wouldn’t be his last. He continued to perform with the band at live shows for years, and even joined them on some tracks for their 2013 album, “Life, Love & Hope.”

DeCarlo also formed the band Decarlo with his son, guitarist Tommy DeCarlo Jr. In October, the singer announced he was stepping away from performing due to “unexpected health issues.”

“[P]erforming and sharing music with all of you around the world has been one of the greatest joys of my life,” DeCarlo wrote in his Facebook post. “I can’t thank you all enough for the incredible love, support, and understanding you’ve shown me and my family during this time. It truly means the world to us.”

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Movie Review: ‘Scream 7’ – Catholic Review

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Movie Review: ‘Scream 7’ – Catholic Review

NEW YORK (OSV News) – As its title suggests, “Scream 7” (Paramount) is the latest extension of a long-lived horror franchise, one that’s currently approaching its 30th anniversary on screen. Since each chapter of this slasher saga has been a bloodsoaked mess, the series’ longevity will strike moviegoers of sense as inexplicable.

Yet the slog continues. While the previous film in the sequence shifted the action from California to New York, this second installment, following a 2022 quasi-reboot, settles on a Midwestern locale and reintroduces us to the series’ original protagonist, Sidney Evans, nee Prescott (Neve Campbell).

Having aged out of the adolescent demographic on whom the various murderers who have donned the Ghostface mask that serves as these films’ dubious trademark over the years seem to prefer to prey, Sidney comes equipped with a teen daughter, Tatum (Isabel May). Will Tatum prove as resourceful in evading the unwanted attentions of Ghostface as Mom has?

On the way to answering that question, a clutch of colorless minor characters fall victim to the killer, who sometimes gets — according to his or her lights — creative. Thus one is quite literally made to spill her guts, while another ends up skewered on a barroom’s pointy beer tap.

Through it all, director Kevin Williamson and his co-writer Guy Busick try to peddle a theme of female empowerment in the face of mortal danger. They also take a stab, as it were, at constructing a plotline about intergenerational family tensions. When not jarring viewers with grisly images, however, they’re only likely to lull them into a stupor.

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The film contains excessive gory violence, including disembowelment and impaling, underage drinking, mature topics, a couple of profanities, several milder oaths, pervasive rough and considerable crude language and occasional crass expressions. The OSV News classification is O — morally offensive. The Motion Picture Association rating is R — restricted. Under 17 requires accompanying parent or adult guardian.

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