This story contains spoilers for Dancing for the Devil: The 7M TikTok Cult.
Picture the scene. You’re a young dancer and you want to start getting your profile out there. Professional, well-paid dancing is notoriously hard to get into. A lot of people fancy themselves good dancers. But standing out from the crowd? That takes perseverance, and gall. So you start a TikTok account. Maybe do a few collabs with other dancers online. You get yourself a manager— the dad of a friend, Robert Shinn, a church pastor who promises you followers and wealth. Fast forward a few months and you’ve cut off nearly all contact with your family. Most of your money goes to the various companies affiliated with Shinn’s “church.” You tell everyone you’re fine.
That’s essentially what unfurls in Dancing for the Devil: The 7M TikTok Cult, the new three-part Netflix docuseries from filmmaker Derek Doneen. Told from the perspective of the family members of those in 7M Management (either a cult or “talent management company”, depending on who you ask) and former members of Shinn’s Shekinah Church, Dancing for the Devil is a harrowing look at abuses of power, allegations of sexual assault and the difficulties in bringing people to justice when the US legal system still doesn’t fully recognize coercive control as a black-and-white crime.
Following the docuseries’ release, GQ spoke to Doneen about how he gained access, his hopes for the future and where TikToker Miranda Derrick—whom the doc largely centers on—is now.
GQ: Can you tell me about how you first heard of 7M and why you decided to make this docuseries?
Derek Doneen: I found out about them at the same time as the rest of the world, which was when the Wilking family made a live video and it spread like wildfire. My partner on this project, Jessica Acevedo, originated the idea and took it to Netflix. She immediately reached out to the Wilking family and started the conversation. It wasn’t a real project until we could secure the commitment of the Wilking family and Melanie Lee, and it wasn’t until then that we got the green light on production. Pryscilla and many of the dancers didn’t leave until we were already in production, and once they left, the dynamic of the show changed.
It’s interesting in the sense that you feel like you’re watching something unfurl in real time.
That’s what was exciting to me as a filmmaker. To be able to capture the story as it developed and immerse the audience in the experience; a family who’s desperate to reunite with their children, their siblings, and people who are deprogramming and trying to reenter society and rediscover who they are, in real time. You don’t get to see that often. I was less interested in telling another story about a monster. The playbook that Robert has is not unique to him. I was much more interested in centering the victims. And I include the families in that statement.
Did you come into any legal stumbling blocks during the making of the series? Was there anything you were told you couldn’t include?
There were certain conversations we couldn’t record because California is a two-party consent state. But the making this show very much included our lawyers every step of the way. Every allegation, if you will, had to be vetted by notable sources and our legal team.
One thing that the doc really highlights is how difficult it is to get justice when society doesn’t fully recognise coercive control as an easily defined crime. How do you think the law could better protect those who find themselves in similar situations as those in the doc?
I’m not a legal expert, so I don’t know how the laws can or could be written. What I can do is start a conversation. It’s exciting to me that you asked this question because that means that people are thinking about that, and I agree. There are very small amounts of people and groups that take advantage of religious protections [in the US] for their own gain. With coercive control, there are laws in other countries that protect people from that behavior—here, it’s much harder to prosecute.
7M have insisted they're just a group. At what point does a group become a cult?
I wouldn't say there's one thing—I'm not sure there's a definitive line. But there are a number of [tactics] that Robert and the higher-ups in the church use that are common within high-control groups that you might consider cults. The most obvious one is cutting them off from their family. Saying that I have a direct line to God, and if you want salvation you have to listen to what I say. If you're controlling someone's financial situation. In this case, Robert checks those boxes.
In the doc, Miranda speaks to her family under the condition that they don't speak to her about Robert or the church. But obviously, the family end up speaking about it in the docuseries. Why do you think they ultimately said yes to getting involved?
This was not something they wanted to do—it was an act of desperation. They tried everything else. They felt like they no other recourse. And maybe by sharing their story, they might move the needle. The first time they went public and made the Instagram live together, it did make a difference. It got many of the dancers to wake up and a wave of them left; some of those dancers shared their story in the film. Obviously Miranda didn't, but I think they thought that telling their story in a more public venue could make an impact with her and hopefully others.
There have been a lot of cults over the years. But this one feels unusual in the sense that it's based around content creation.
[Robert] has been doing this for a long time and he's wanted a taste of fame. He tried to make it as a producer, he tried his hand as a manager in other spaces, he wanted his daughter to be a famous singer, his son-in-law an actor. So he's tried to find his way into Hollywood. It was really when he met BDash, who comes from another high-control group—the leader was eventually arrested, and we don't really get into this [in the show]—and when that group fell apart, he found Robert and Isaiah [his son]. They started making content together. So I think Robert just saw an opportunity: like, this is the way I can get in.
At the end of the doc, we learn that Miranda is still part of 7M and a lot of the other dancers are still part of 7M. Do you know if the situation has changed at all with anyone, following the ending?
No, I mean, Nick—who goes by Raino—has deleted all of his social media, I'm not sure if his family has heard from him since the show has come out. Miranda and BDash have posted a few videos and turned the comments off. But they've stayed pretty quiet. Obviously the trial is scheduled for 2025, so there are developments there. They've all taken 7M out of their profile, so I don't they go by that anymore—that's a change. That happened as we were in production. But sadly I think many of them are in the exact same situation.
With Robert going to trial… Was that a development that happened in the middle of filming?
Yeah, the lawsuits unfolded in real time. He has multiple active lawsuits. Pryscilla left the church during production and it took a bit of time for us to get in touch with her. Her sister didn't know where she was. So there was some recovery before she launched the lawsuit, but that was something that was important for her – to take her strength back.
What's the one thing that you'd like audiences to take away from Dancing for the Devil?
There are a few things. A hope that they can find inspiration in the strength and bravery of the people who shared their stories. If you are in a group that might be similar to Shekinah, or a domestic partner that might be highly controlling, and you don't know how to extricate yourself, that you can find inspiration in these people who were able to walk away. And that we're having these larger conversations about how to protect other people from predators like this. I think a lot of the questions you're asking are those that I hope a lot of people are asking. And ultimately, I hope that the families and victims get the justice that they deserve.