Sinners

There’s a moment in Ryan Coogler’s Sinners where a bluesman’s soulful tune fills a Mississippi juke joint, and we see generations of Black Americans dancing across time—past, present, and future intermingling in a haunting vision. It’s the kind of scene that makes you catch your breath, even as you wonder what exactly it means. That’s Sinners in a nutshell: its reach may sometimes exceed its grasp, but it’s a mesmerizing effort.

Michael B. Jordan pulls double duty as twin brothers Smoke and Stack, returning to Depression-era Mississippi flush with Chicago mob money and dreams of opening a juke joint. Jordan differentiates the twins not through broad mannerisms but subtle shifts in bearing—you always know which brother you’re watching, even before they open their mouths. It’s a performance that cements his status as a generational talent.

The film’s first half plays like a crime drama, following the brothers as they navigate the complexities of establishing their business in Jim Crow Mississippi. Coogler recreates the era with vivid attention to detail—you can practically feel the dust settling on your clothes. The supporting cast sparkles, particularly a welcome return from Delroy Lindo. Each character, from the alcoholic bluesman to the Chinese American shopkeepers, feels lived-in and real.

Then an Irish vampire shows up, and everything goes sideways.

Lesser filmmakers might have fumbled this sharp genre turn, but Coogler uses it to deepen his themes rather than abandon them. The vampire becomes both literal monster and metaphor for colonialism and exploitation—at one point casually mentioning how the Romans forced their religion on his people. It’s a loaded line in a film already grappling with questions of who preys on whom. Even our protagonist brothers aren’t innocent, profiting from their own community while trying to serve it.

Technically, the film is a feast. The cinematography shifts from sun-bleached vistas punctuated by the brothers’ Technicolor hats to grainy, grindhouse-inspired footage once the vampires appear. The soundtrack follows suit, transitioning from Delta Blues to Fabio Frizzi-style prog horror. These aren’t just stylistic flourishes—they’re the vocabulary Coogler uses to tell his story.

At over two hours with multiple endings, Sinners occasionally feels like a film unsure how to wrap itself up. There are other minor quibbles: a vampire who’s survived millennia proves surprisingly easy to outwit, and a cameo by blues legend Buddy Guy in the epilogue, while well-intentioned, falls flat.

But these are small complaints about a film that dares to be both entertaining and thoughtful, that uses genre conventions to explore serious themes without becoming preachy. Like the blues music that features so prominently, Sinners takes familiar elements and transforms them into something fresh and powerful.