Ryan Coogler, a filmmaker who has already demonstrated a keen eye for the intersection of genre and social commentary, now plunges us into the humid, fraught landscape of the 1930s Mississippi Delta with Sinners.
The following are kind of spoilers if you haven't seen the trailer or no nothing about the plot of the film.
Sinners follows twin brothers, Smoke and Stack, both embodied with a simmering intensity by Michael B. Jordan who delivers Smoke and Stack with distinct personalities while also hinting at the unbreakable bond between them. They return to their rural hometown ostensibly to escape a past life of crime in Chicago, hoping for a fresh start. But Coogler, with his characteristic understanding of the weight of history, immediately establishes that no one escapes their past that easily, especially in a place where the very soil seems to hold the echoes of generations of hardship and injustice.
"You keep dancing with the devil... one day he's gonna follow you home."
It’s a horror film, yes, with moments that genuinely jolt and unsettle. But it’s also a potent exploration of Black life in the Jim Crow South, where the supernatural threat of vampires intertwines with the very real terror of systemic racism and violence. Coogler doesn’t shy away from the brutal realities of the era, depicting the ever-present threat of the Ku Klux Klan and the suffocating limitations imposed on the Black community. Yet, amidst this oppression, he also finds moments of profound human connection, resilience, and the vibrant pulse of Black culture, particularly through the film’s evocative use of blues music.
The blues isn’t just a soundtrack here, it’s a lament and a celebration, a spiritual force that seems to both attract and repel the evil that lurks in the shadows.
There’s a breathtaking sequence in a juke joint, a swirling vortex of sound and movement, where the decades seem to collapse, and the music becomes a conduit to something primal and powerful.
The decision to root this particular vampire Remmick ( played with glee by Jack O'Connell) in Irish soil, to give him that specific cultural baggage gives it extra depth. It’s not just about a monster in the dark; it brings with it centuries of history, of displacement, of a certain kind of melancholy and a strange empathy. Ireland, a land steeped in folklore, in tales of the uncanny, a place that has known its share of darkness and oppression. There’s a resonance there, a subtle but persistent echo of historical trauma that aligns, in a strange way, with the historical wounds Coogler is exploring in the American South.
In Ludwig Göransson's score, there’s no screeching violins or cheap jump-scare stingers here. Instead, he digs deeper, tapping into something more rooted in the landscape and the cultural undercurrents of the Mississippi Delta. There’s a percussive element, a steady, unsettling pulse that underlies many of the scenes, particularly those steeped in the supernatural. I don't know who's having more fun at the party in the juke joint or the vampires celebrating with their Gaelic dancing.
The cinematography by Autumn Durald Arkapaw is stunning, capturing both the beauty and the decay of the Delta landscape, the warm hues often juxtaposed with a creeping darkness.
Sinners grapples with the insidious nature of control, the myriad ways in which power structures seek to confine and diminish individuals and communities. This isn't a subtle undercurrent; it's a pervasive force that shapes the narrative and the very air the characters breathe. The Deep South of the Depression era isn't merely a backdrop; it’s a landscape defined by a brutal racial hierarchy. The control exerted over the Black community isn't just about overt acts of violence, though those are certainly present. It's the systemic denial of opportunity, the constant threat of social and economic subjugation, the ingrained prejudice that dictates every interaction. Smoke and Stack's yearning for escape to is immediately confronted by the reality of a world where their very identity marks them as subordinate, their freedom perpetually curtailed by the dominant white power structure.
Then there is the character of Sammie. His musical talent, a deeply personal expression, becomes subject to a different form of control. While perhaps cloaked in a guise of appreciation or even spiritual guidance, the film suggests a dynamic where his artistry is, in a sense, managed and contained by his religious father. It raises questions about the ownership of creative expression and the subtle ways in which power can dictate the terms of that expression, potentially limiting the artist's autonomy.
And finally, the figure of Remmick. He embodies the most absolute form of control. His predation isn't simply about sustenance; it’s about domination. He doesn't just take life; he appropriates it, turning his victims into extensions of his own will, devoid of their individual agency. He represents the ultimate manifestation of unchecked power, the reduction of others to mere instruments of his own desires.
Ryan Coogler has once again proven himself to be a filmmaker of exceptional vision and talent. He takes his time, allowing the atmosphere to build, the tension to simmer. He’s not interested in cheap scares but in creating a pervasive sense of unease, a feeling that something is fundamentally wrong in this place. With Sinners, he has created a film that is both deeply entertaining and profoundly meaningful. It’s a singular achievement, a bloody, beautiful, and utterly unforgettable cinematic experience.
(Sinners. Pastel.Ink.oil Pencil. By Basesketch)