Dancing for the Devil: The 7M TikTok Cult—a three-part documentary premiering on Netflix today—opens with a story that captured the imagination of millions on TikTok. For years, Miranda Wilking (now known as Miranda Derrick) and her sister, Melanie, had posted clips in which they performed viral dances, amassing between 2 and 3 million followers. But in early 2021, Miranda suddenly disappeared from the feed. Fans wondered about her mysterious absence until February of 2022, when Melanie and her parents posted a video alleging that Miranda had been brainwashed by a man named Robert Shinn. They claimed that Miranda and 10 other young professional dancers were trapped in a cult posing as a talent management company called 7M.
Director Derek Doneen (The Price of Freedom) began reporting and shooting shortly after the Wilking family first posted its accusations on TikTok; he was brought on by executive producer Jessica Acevedo, who has a background in dance. “This was more urgent for me because the story is continuing to unfold,” Doneen told Vanity Fair, adding that nonfiction filmmakers rarely get access to subjects as their lives change in real time. The series is not an academic exploration; it’s reporting on families trying to save their children and escaped followers’ efforts to rebuild their lives. In the second episode, though, Doneen does travel back in time—because, unsurprisingly, 7M is not Shinn’s first controversial endeavor.
The documentary covers how Shinn founded Shekinah Church—which is not affiliated with other organizations by the same name—in 1994, after leaving a medical career in Canada and immigrating to the United States. Viewers learn about the church’s early years from a different Melanie, a Korean American immigrant who attended services as a teenager. When she and her sister Priscylla joined Shekinah more than 20 years ago, there were only about 15 congregants, mostly comprised of Shinn’s family. The church convinced the girls to live in its housing, moved them around every six to eight months, and eventually separated them. It allegedly prevented them from visiting one another and controlled what and when they ate. After Shinn told Melanie she would have to “pay” her “price” by becoming his mistress, she says, she orchestrated an escape. That was more than a decade ago. (Shinn did not respond to Vanity Fair’s request for comment. As stated at the end of the docuseries, Shinn has denied the allegations against him, including those of sexual abuse, no criminal charges have been brought against him, and the civil lawsuit—the claims of which he and his codefendants have denied—is ongoing.)
When Doneen began shooting, Priscylla was still a member of the church. But during production, she escaped—and, after much trust-building, joined the project. With incredible strength and composure, she details her slow descent into powerlessness and alleged continual rape at Shinn’s whim. Thanks to her participation, viewers witness some of the true costs of membership in a cult-like group. “When you get out of a situation like that, you’re not free,” explains Acevedo, the series’ co-executive producer. One exchange in particular about a child’s birthday party lays bare the impossibility of reentering society and maintaining healthy relationships after being drawn into an organization like Shekinah—a raw and heartrending scene even for those who are deeply familiar with media about cults.
Although women continue to come forward with stories of alleged physical abuse, much about Shinn, 7M, and Shekinah remains anonymous or off the record. More known at this time are details of Shinn’s alleged financial exploitations. Over the years, his businesses have included a cafe, two mortgage companies, two flower shops, and two real estate companies, all of which were run by church members. According to Priscylla, the mortgage and real estate companies brought in more than 1 million dollars in commissions in 2021. As a broker, she was responsible for much of that business—but, she claims in the series, she wasn’t allowed to touch her bank account, and was instead given an allowance of $80 every two weeks. In a 2013 lawsuit, former church member Jung Hee Lee alleges she was forced to work 40 hours per week, but was not allowed access to her checking account, and instead received a stipend of $30 per week from the church. Lee ultimately won the lawsuit and was awarded $9,215 in unpaid wages and damages.
Such employment arrangements have long been a hallmark of high-control groups. In a 2012 court case, for example, former Scientology member and minister Marc Headley alleged that he was paid 39 cents an hour for work that netted a 7,400% profit for the church. He contended that the church violated the Trafficking Victims Protection Act by psychologically coercing him to provide labor. The church asserted, however, that the claim failed to establish a genuine issue of material fact. The court dismissed the case.
Almost all high-control groups are money-making endeavors. Another hallmark is that they prey on those who are already economically unstable. Following the Jonestown massacre in 1978, a congressional investigation determined that Jim Jones had recruited most of his followers from “poor ghetto neighborhoods.” Melanie says as much of Shinn. “He targeted young people and put them to work,” she explains in the series. “They were okay with it because they were never rich to begin with. They came from a low-income, immigrant family. And he would work their asses off.”
