In my review of this awful, bottom-feeding crockumentary (it's a word because I say it is), I note how perpetually bewildered the decrepit psychic bag at the center of all the idiocy seems to be. Here's what I was talking about:
Seriously, she looks like she's getting an unexpected phone call from God, and he's telling her that there's actually someone out there who would fuck her without money exchanging hands. You can read the full review of The Last Testament in my book Legendary House of Haunted Hell (which I'm not going to stop pimping, so just break down and buy it already), and you can learn more about psychics by shoving your head entirely up your ass, because they're all a bunch of phonies. Except for the hot ones, apparently; they always seem to know that I want to fuck them.