Ryan Coogler’s ‘Sinners’ Review
Ryan Coogler’s Sinners is a cinematic celebration — a wild, genre-blending fantasia that offers up an exuberant love song to life, love, and the power of storytelling. Set in Jim Crow Mississippi, the film is a swirling fusion of styles and themes, complete with dazzling performances, dancing vampires, and deep meditations on history and heritage. When a Black blues musician plays in a juke joint, he’s not just entertaining the crowd; he’s channeling generations of ancestors and echoing into futures not yet written.
In many ways, that musician is a mirror of Coogler himself — a time traveler of sorts, moving fluidly between the past, present, and future, exploring vast emotional and creative terrain. Few American directors have risen as swiftly and confidently as Coogler. A decade ago, he rebooted the Rocky franchise with Creed, infusing it with fresh heart and urgency. Then came Black Panther, which vaulted him to new heights, proving he could operate within the blockbuster system while preserving his unique voice.
Black Panther worked because its Afrofuturist setting, Wakanda, felt both fantastical and grounded. Its high-tech wonders never obscured the real emotional stakes. Coogler constantly reminded viewers that even in a superhero movie, the realities of race, loss, and power are never far from view. That same commitment to emotional truth pulses through Sinners.
The film unfolds in 1932, in the Mississippi Delta town of Clarksdale. It’s a place of hard labor and hidden magic, where cotton fields stretch endlessly and dreams feel almost forbidden. At the center of the story is Sammie (newcomer Miles Caton), the earnest son of a preacher who longs to be a musician. His shot comes when his cousins, identical twins named Smoke and Stack, breathe new life into an abandoned building, transforming it into a vibrant juke joint.
Both twins are played with soulful magnetism by Michael B. Jordan. The contrast between them is striking: Stack is suave and sharp, all charm and danger, while Smoke is quieter, more contemplative, cigarette smoke swirling around him like a halo. In one mesmerizing scene, Stack lights Smoke’s cigarette, their synchronized movement both a visual delight and a metaphor for their bond.
Once the juke joint is up and running, the narrative begins to branch and swirl. Delroy Lindo appears as Delta Slim, a seasoned bluesman. We meet Grace and Bo Chow, a Chinese grocer couple played by Li Jun Li and Yao. Each twin rekindles an old flame — Stack with Mary (Hailee Steinfeld), Smoke with Annie (Wunmi Mosaku). But while Annie and Smoke share a tender, emotionally charged reunion, Mary’s storyline feels more symbolic than lived-in.
That imbalance matters. Mosaku plays Annie as a fully realized woman — passionate, wounded, alive — while Mary too often feels like a vessel for Big Ideas. Still, the Annie–Smoke arc is so rich and textured that it adds an aching beauty to the film’s emotional landscape. Their love becomes a counterpoint to the more abstract or chaotic elements elsewhere.
At times, Sinners feels like three movies in one. It’s Coogler’s fifth feature, but it often bursts at the seams with ambition, like his fifth, sixth, and seventh combined. There’s exuberant joy in that overabundance. A standout sequence gathers people from across history — from traditional African dancers to B-boys — at the juke joint in a transcendent communion of past, present, and speculative future.
Even as the film brims with life, it never shies away from darkness. There’s horror in these fields, haunted by the specter of slavery. One especially chilling moment finds a Klansman’s hood resting on a bed, a quiet reminder of ever-present racial violence. Yet the film insists that joy can be louder than fear. It insists that music, dance, and human connection still hold power.
The story shifts gears when Remmick (Jack O’Connell), a smooth-talking Irish devil figure, arrives. With his entrance, romance and musicality give way to violence and chaos. Remmick is compelling, but his storyline threatens to overwhelm the film’s emotional core. The juke joint becomes a war zone, a symbolic battleground for soul, culture, and survival.
Coogler’s command of action is undeniable, and he unleashes that talent in a fierce, feverish climax. Gunfire erupts. Blood flows. The juke joint shakes with clashes between demons and mortals. It’s masterfully staged, but in the chaos, some of the gentler threads — especially the romantic ones — risk being eclipsed.
Still, the film’s quieter moments resonate most deeply. In one stunning sequence, the camera follows Grace’s daughter, played by Helena Hu, as she walks from one grocery store to another. At the same time, Grace crosses the street in the opposite direction, their movements creating a silent, beautiful symmetry. It’s a small moment, but it speaks volumes.
By the time Sinners ends, many characters have faced their own trials by fire. Some have been broken; others endure. Grace, Bo, Sammie, and others carry with them the scars of violence, but also the spirit of resistance and hope. It’s a story of survival and spiritual legacy — and Sammie’s songs become their shared soundtrack.
In that final stretch, we hear Sammie’s music again, underscoring the hope that his story — and the stories of so many who came before and after him — will keep echoing. The film leaves us with a sense of continuity, of connection, and of the persistent fight for joy in a world that too often tries to crush it.
Ultimately, Sinners is not just a period piece or a genre mash-up. It’s a spiritual reckoning — a film about what it means to live, love, create, and fight, especially when the odds are stacked against you. It’s a tribute to the Black South, to music, to memory, and to the power of storytelling to shape reality.
And like the blues Sammie plays, or the beat that fuels the dancers in the juke joint, Coogler’s latest is a film meant to be felt in the chest, in the bones — and, most of all, in the heart.
