Sinners

by Chris Stewart 05.2025

Jim Crow-era Mississippi swelters and swoons in Ryan Coogler's genre-blending Sinners as doppelganger cousins “Smoke” and “Stack” Moore (Michael B. Jordan) return to establish a juke joint, trailing rumors of gangster exploits in Chicago and leaving folks to wonder why they somehow have full pockets and yet didn't find Chicago suitable for staying. Have these two – one more somber and protective, and one cheekier and quicker on the draw with guns and women alike – come home to bring the big time to the delta? Or is something else at play?

The film's early passages, driven by two charismatic performances by Jordan, establish that music is not just life here, but life abundant, and its call is tied to Hell's temptations from the start. As we open, young Sammie (newcomer Miles Caton) stumbles into his daddy's church with the broken neck of a blues guitar in hand: a bloodied stake.

By the time further stakes, garlic tinctures, and protective pouches are in the mix, we barely remember that the Klan, which an early character states “hasn't been around for years”, is very much still around, and the overtures of a clutch of roving haints might have their appeal, if not the same false politeness, when compared to routine oppression.

Coogler's facility with scope, ensemble, and particularly sound go a long way, given that the gifted filmmaker has pointed things to say about the soul of Black American culture and the viscous encroachments it has faced, but also thoughts on whether Irish vampires might spiritually weaponize four-part folk harmonies as well as fangs. It's a whole lot of movie, and Coogler's ideas eventually end up playing catch-up to the action, but one can't fault Sinners for not threading every needle when its highs shimmer so memorably. Not least of which is Delroy Lindo playing a salty old bluesman deep in his cups.

As a transportative look at crime and aspiration in 1930s Mississippi, it's fairly simplistic stuff. As a vampire flick, it's got an angle: we're dealing more with the tempting ministry of a rival congregation here (led by a game Jack O'Connell's Remmick) than we are your typical seduced-by-the-night fare. As a story about whether or not music is the only thing worth giving your soul to, Coogler finds his most powerful take. It's rousing stuff, and a searing showcase for composer Ludwig Göransson. Coogler takes true risks with his commitment to the pitch. There's an enchanting idea here: What lure can unholy, undying life have when music and storytelling – collective heritage –  already provide the same? When they literally transcend the bonds of time and space whenever people gather, sing, testify, and touch?

Ownership begins with the body and ends with the soul in this raucous, heavy-impact, bluesy picture. Laced with a touch of hoodoo and wearing the protective charms of a slick, star-led, conventionally thrilling blockbuster; Sinners is a surprising, occasionally barmy achievement, and, thankfully, the filmmaker is allowed to tell a story his way.