Music is liberation in Sinners, a startling, stomping period spectacle from writer-director Ryan Coogler, reuniting with his Creed, Black Panther, and Fruitvale Station star Michael B. Jordan.
Actually, he’s reuniting with two Jordans. The actor plays twins Smoke and Stack, who have recently returned to their hometown in 1932 Mississippi after a successful, if criminal, run in Chicago. They plan to open a juke joint, with their little cousin Sammie (Miles Caton), a blues prodigy, as the main musical attraction. Initially, they think the local Klan will be their biggest problem, but Sinners takes a turn about halfway through to reveal that something more supernaturally horrifying is afoot.
This is a movie that carries itself as a Movie, with wide-screen compositions, a boldly roaming camera, and a stunning single-take sequence at its center, set during opening night at the juke joint. As the camera swoons through the dance floor, winding its way among revelers, we begin to notice anachronistic sounds and figures—a DJ here, a rapper there—evoking the evolution of the blues across eras and the various expressions of freedom it has influenced. It’s a stunning, virtuosic display on the part of Coogler and cinematographer Autumn Durald Arkapaw (Black Panther: Wakanda Forever), one that also carries potent thematic implications.
And yet, could Sinners have benefitted from being a bit less audacious? (Spoilers ahead.) As a horror fan, I might have been happier with a leaner, meaner vampire flick right from the start. That sort of tightness might also have forced Coogler to zero in on one of the themes at play, rather than offering a plethora of (occasionally contradictory) ideas about race and history, justice and vengeance, religion and repression, sin and redemption. The movie is baggy, to be sure—there’s a blaxploitation-style addendum involving the Klan that’s an especially sore thumb—but there is no denying that for most of its substantial running time (including a haunting post-credits sequence), Sinners sings.
Music, fittingly, is a big part of that. As Sammie, newcomer Caton has an understated presence—until he whips out that guitar and bares his soul. Throughout, the period-inflected score by Ludwig Goransson conjures an atmosphere of cosmic suspense. Most effective, however, is the ingenious sound design, which even accentuates the stories characters tell with evocative audio details from their tales.
In the dual lead role, Jordan is solid, as you’d expect, although a bit more tension between Smoke and Stack might have helped deepen their shared storyline. The performances I appreciated most were the supporting ones: Wunmi Mosaku as Annie, Smoke’s stalwart former lover, who can connect with the spiritual world; Jack O’Connell as Remmick, an Irish immigrant who brings his own sort of music to the proceedings; and, above all, Delroy Lindo as Delta Slim, a blues lifer who signs on to play the juke joint. Lindo is asked to be the movie’s comic relief and its sage source of wisdom; of course he pulls off both with aplomb.
Sinners, as a whole, doesn’t always have such deftness. But if it didn’t go as big as it did, we’d likely have missed out on some of the most strikingly cinematic flourishes of the year.
(4/23/2025)
