'Sinners': A Genre-Bending Masterpiece of Myth, Music, and Mayhem From Director Ryan Coogler

The latest feature from the highly lauded writer-director Ryan Coogler, Sinners, transcends conventional categorization, solidifying his reputation as a formidable cinematic force. Having previously captivated audiences with the intensely personal debut Fruitvale Station—a devastating narrative anticipating the Black Lives Matter movement—Coogler then revitalized the Rocky series with the critically and commercially successful Creed. His subsequent work on Marvel’s Black Panther is often cited as a high-water mark for the Marvel Cinematic Universe, a sentiment reinforced by its emotionally resonant sequel that served as a poignant homage to the late Chadwick Boseman. Sinners marks a significant departure, standing as Coogler’s first entirely original narrative, unmoored from real-life events or pre-existing intellectual property. This audacious film is so dense with thematic complexity and genre fluidity that it contains the substance of several features.

Set against the oppressive backdrop of the 1932 Jim Crow South, the film delivers a vivid, evocative portrait of life in a segregated Mississippi Delta plantation town. It seamlessly fuses this historical context with a visceral, pulpy explosion of vampire horror, a dynamic exploration of the spiritual and supernatural potency of the blues, and a potent allegory for the human and otherworldly struggle for liberation. Operating at the intersection of arthouse complexity and grindhouse visceral appeal, this blood-drenched cinematic mixtape should, by all logic, collapse under its own weight. Yet, Coogler’s assertive direction, an outstanding ensemble cast, all-encompassing IMAX visuals, and a sound and music design that simultaneously shakes the body and stirs the soul ensure its remarkable success.

Coogler reunites with frequent collaborator Michael B. Jordan, who delivers a double dose of cool, yet steely, charisma as identical twin entrepreneurs, Smoke and Stack. Having survived the brutality of World War I trenches and the perils of Chicago gangland life, the brothers return to their hometown of Clarksdale, Mississippi, after a seven-year absence. They arrive in 1932 flush with capital, a truckload of illegal liquor, and the ambitious plan to open a juke joint. Dressed in sharp, big-city attire that conspicuously contrasts with the dirt-poor, segregated setting, Smoke and Stack purchase a derelict mill, its accompanying equipment, and the surrounding land from the sweaty, bigoted local, Hogwood (David Maldonado). They issue a clear, lethal warning to Hogwood and his Ku Klux Klan associates to steer clear of their newly acquired property. Hogwood’s dismissive smirk, asserting that the Klan no longer exists, is immediately belied by the pervasive tension.

The narrative opens with a highly charged scene featuring the trauma-stricken sharecropper Sammie (the impressive newcomer Miles Caton), covered in blood and bearing fresh claw marks on his face, as he staggers into the church where his father preaches, clutching his guitar during the service. This disturbing image is preceded by a voiceover recounting ancient legends of music so profound it can summon spirits from both the past and the future, piercing the veil between life and death. This mystical force is said to heal communities but also attract malevolent entities. The film traces the lineage of this power back to ancestral West Africa, pre-colonization Ireland, and Choktaw tribal lore, foreshadowing the presence of all three cultures within the story’s fabric. Sammie’s powerful blues guitar and stirring vocals clearly wield this transcendent force, a reality his pastor father seems to sense when he warns his son, “You keep dancing with the devil, one day he’s gonna follow you home.” While flashes of demonic, red-eyed faces tormenting the young man hint at the hell he narrowly escaped, Coogler masterfully holds back on escalating the horror as the action retreats to the previous day.

As the pragmatic Smoke heads into town to secure assistance from Chinese American grocer Bo Chow (Yao) and his wife Grace (Li Jun Li), the more easygoing Stack reconnects with their cousin Sammie, whose prodigious musical talents are essential for the juke joint’s inaugural night. Stack also successfully recruits the legendary local harmonica and piano blues musician Delta Slim (Delroy Lindo) with the promise of unlimited Irish beer, and hires the burly sharecropper Cornbread (Omar Miller) away from the cotton fields to serve as bouncer.

With impressive narrative economy, Coogler introduces compelling romantic interests for the three central male characters. Sammie is immediately captivated at the railway station by Pearline (Jayme Lawson), a young woman trapped in a miserable marriage who yearns to sing the blues. Stack has a tense, uncomfortable reunion with Mary (Hailee Steinfeld), a wealthy white woman married to a man in Arkansas who is in town for her mother’s funeral. Her romantic history with Stack, who abruptly vanished from her life, leaves her with lingering resentment, even as her attraction remains undeniable. The most engrossing of the three relationships is Smoke’s reunion with Annie (Wunmi Mosaku), a Hoodoo conjurer and Orisha spiritual healer who manages a small plantation store, where their infant son is buried beneath an oak tree. Despite Smoke wearing the talismanic Mojo bag she gave him throughout his years away, he professes disbelief in ghosts or demons, claiming to believe only in power and the wealth that secures it. Nevertheless, their differences dissolve as Annie calls him by his birth name, Elijah, and their bodies passionately merge.

For a film that inevitably spirals into a violent bloodbath, Sinners is notably steeped in sensuality, a quality befitting a title one might expect to see emblazoned on a lurid novel. This sensuality extends into the sumptuous textures and saturated colors of Autumn Durald Arkapaw’s magnificent, big-canvas cinematography, which utilized both 65mm IMAX and Ultra Panavision 70 formats. It is even more pronounced in the flavorful, intoxicating musical landscape crafted by Ludwig Göransson, where the score and the blues performances seamlessly fuse.

The film's defining set-piece centers on Sammie electrifying the opening-night juke joint crowd with the original composition “I Lied to You” (penned by Göransson and Raphael Saadiq). As the music reaches its crescendo, the veil between life and death is spectacularly breached, crossing both metaphysical and temporal boundaries. The crowd crammed into the old mill is suddenly joined by West African ceremonial dancers and drummers, futuristic hip-hop dancers performing popping and locking, a deejay working turntables, and a sequin-adorned, Rick James-style guitarist. In a single, overwhelming sequence, Coogler traces a clear line from the 1930s Delta blues back to its African origins and forward to its seismic influence on funk and other genres. Sammie’s music even summons traditional Chinese dancers, re-awakening the cultural heritage of the Americanized Bo and Grace.

This ecstatic communal experience represents a glorious, fleeting moment of liberation for an oppressed community, most of whom are struggling hand-to-mouth under a relentless system of exploitation and hatred. However, Sammie’s transcendent song also inadvertently beckons sinister interlopers all the way from North Carolina, determined to make that hard-won freedom short-lived.

Coogler’s approach to illustrating the violation of a community by supernatural forces—a violation mirroring the real-world history of the Deep South—is not subtle. Yet, the vampires’ descent upon the juke joint expertly ramps up the suspense and becomes genuinely frightening, beginning with the unsettling charm of their ancient leader, Remmick (a chilling Jack O’Connell), and culminating in the brutal carnage of their siege. All the ensuing bloody mayhem is expertly foreshadowed in an earlier scene where Remmick—exposed to daylight, bloodied, and emitting smoke—knocks on a farmhouse door, seeking shelter from the couple inside, Bert (Peter Dreimanis) and Joan (Lola Kirke). (The reason for casting singers in these roles soon becomes chillingly clear.) A Choktaw posse pursuing the runaway appears, with their spokesman (Nathaniel Arcand) warning Joan, “He’s not what he seems.” Unfortunately, the warning is issued too late.

In its most unrestrained moments, Coogler’s film feels like a potent collision of Lovecraft Country with True Blood, though closer parallels will inevitably be drawn to the 1996 Robert Rodriguez-Quentin Tarantino collaboration, From Dusk Till Dawn. Unlike that film, however, Sinners does not offer a knowing wink to the audience from behind its grotesque violence and droll B-movie conventions. Coogler is preoccupied with more profound concerns, yielding images and ideas that are deeply unsettling. It is disquieting to witness a throng of newly undead revelers—the first to flee the juke joint once the blood begins to flow—skipping in a circle around Remmick as he sings “Wild Mountain Thyme” and performs a small Irish jig. The very sight of Black people mesmerized into dancing to what is perhaps the "whitest" music imaginable is profoundly disturbing. Even more chilling is Remmick’s invitation to the holdouts to join them, promising an escape from dehumanizing cruelty into a fellowship that offers eternal life and enlightenment.

Jordan inhabits his dual roles with confident authority, sly humor, and effortless masculine physicality, shaded with the menace one might expect from brothers rumored to have worked for Al Capone. Ruth E. Carter, whose meticulously detailed period costumes are superb throughout, gives the twins distinct sartorial styles. Smoke favors a dapper gray three-piece suit and a flat cap, while Stack, his gold-capped tooth gleaming, is more ostentatious in his burgundy fedora with a matching tie and pocket square. Beyond mere aesthetics, Jordan imbues them with contrasting energies and attitudes, setting them apart even before they clash, and subtly signaling which brother will be maniacally transformed and which will retain his humanity long enough to seek retribution.

Steinfeld portrays Mary as a sleek vixen, palpably chafing under the restrictions of a tedious marriage and rendered easy prey for a fate unconscionably revealed in the film’s trailer. Of the small group trapped within the juke joint, Lindo is in winning form as a boozy elder previously acquainted with the devil. Caton (a former backup singer for H.E.R.) is a genuine discovery, presenting a vulnerability that is nonetheless driven by his desire to shed the “Preacher Boy” label and establish himself as a serious musician (he demonstrates impressive skill on the resonator guitar). Lawson is given the least developed character, but she more than compensates when Pearline sings, unleashing sultry moves and raising the emotional temperature until the entire establishment feels thick with raw passion. Li delivers strong moments as Grace, whose survival instincts clash with the motives of the others.

The true standout performance, however, is delivered by the Nigerian-British actress Mosaku, previously memorable in the unconventional horror film His House. Annie is soft and sweet with Smoke, the evidence of their enduring love written clearly in her eyes. Yet, she is also tough and well-versed in dealing with “haints,” the Gullah term for malevolent spirits. She is the first among the group to recognize that the intruders are no ordinary specters but vampires, and she proves quick-thinking enough to temporarily blind one of them by tossing a jar of pickled garlic into his face.

It remains to be seen whether devoted horror aficionados will patiently endure Coogler’s deliberate scene-setting, his detailed attention to character and milieu, before the long-awaited bloodletting begins. Nevertheless, when the horror finally settles in, it is a nerve-rattling experience with abundant, gruesome payoff. The movie is intelligent horror, at times even poetic, offering profound commentary on race and spiritual freedom. While it may not achieve the precise synthesis of social critique and bone-chilling terror found in the Jordan Peele league, Sinners is an utterly unique cinematic experience, unlike anything either the director or Jordan has produced before. It is also a meticulously crafted motion picture that absolutely demands to be viewed on the largest screen possible, accompanied by the loudest available sound system. Furthermore, viewers are advised to linger for one or two surprises hidden within the end credits.