Sinners

I’ve seen films in 70MM. I’ve seen them in IMAX. But Sinners, at Coogler’s own recommendation, was my first experience of both in one.

And what a vision it was.

Sinners, written and directed by Ryan Coogler, masterfully tackles more than a dozen layered themes in a purposeful and elegant film for the ages. The story takes place in Clarksdale, Mississippi, on October 15, 1932. Twin brothers Elias and Elijah Moore (Smoke and Stack), played by Michael B. Jordan, return to their hometown after fighting in the First World War (1914–1918) and later moving to Chicago, where they lived a life of crime. Back in Mississippi to reconnect with family and friends, the brothers—whose reputation precedes them—catch the entrepreneurial bug and purchase a warehouse from a Klan leader named Hogwood, who may have set more than a sale in motion. Coogler blends historical reality with fictional horror seamlessly, highlighting the supernatural in a world already riddled with generational trauma.

The first half plays like a time machine, transporting us to the Southern vistas of the Jim Crow era. Introducing the audience to themes that will become the backdrop of a bloody vampiric massacre, the cinematography is crisp and enhances the story’s portrayal of the Deep South, capturing its Southern Gothic essence with haunting precision. It is visually stunning, yet heavy with history.

Throughout the first hour, we meet the friends and family of the Moore brothers. Sammie, a preacher’s son and cousin to the twins, struggles to balance his faith with a growing interest in secular music. Annie, a hoodoo practitioner, uses her spiritual knowledge to protect and heal. Mary, biracial and emotionally tied to Smoke, is navigating a complicated past of her own and still searching for closure.

Then there’s Grace and Bo Chow, who run two local markets, one serving Black residents and the other white. Cornbread, a childhood friend and field worker, and Delta Slim, a bluesman chasing money, music, and beer, round out the crew. Each character, a product of their environment, stays afloat under the thumb of white supremacy through Christianity, spirituality, or sheer determination—by any means necessary—to survive the harsh times.

The second half of the film pushes every character beyond what they could have imagined. Stack and Smoke tell Sammie they returned to Mississippi to “deal with the devil they know,” but they soon find themselves confronting familiar struggles: trauma, identity, temptation, loyalty, and exploitation, through terrifying, mythical ordeals. These themes have always shaped their lives, but now they take on a violent, supernatural form. What begins as a night meant to reunite the community through dance and blues music, rooted in Clarksdale’s legacy, spirals into a battle between the living and the dead, the soulful and the soulless. Both crave connection, but only one side is driven by bloodlust.

“You keep dancing with the devil, one day it’s gonna follow you home.”

But the chaos means something. And the most haunting blow doesn’t come from a vampire, but from a quiet betrayal. Grace Chow once embraced as family, chooses self-preservation when her daughter is threatened, revealing where her loyalty truly lies. To Grace, Black lives were profitable until they became inconvenient. In a world like this, the true horror is the quiet power of those who benefit from injustice and disappear when it demands accountability.

The film does a remarkable job of bringing each character to life. We see how the natural gifts and spirit of Black people—especially Sammie—are sought after by both humans and the supernatural, across cultures. Some are driven by white supremacy and the pursuit of power. Others, like Remmick, played by Jack O’Connell, are pulled in for different reasons. He acknowledges the mistreatment of Black folks but believes their spiritual connection to the earth might help him reconnect with his own family, who he’s been separated from for years. In their rootedness, he sees something he’s lost—and so the war begins.

By the end of the film, the living is left to reconcile surviving a spiritual war that’s beyond comprehension, while the rest are forced to face their fate. Those two days in Clarksdale, Mississippi feel symbolic of so much more. And since we're here, maybe wrapping these themes inside a fictional vampire story helps non-Black audiences sit with the weight of the Black experience in the old South. Because sometimes, truth hits harder when it’s hiding in plain sight.

How many could survive what Black people have endured?

Sinners doesn’t lack symbolism, backstory, or emotional weight. Even in something as simple as Delta Slim reflecting on his family’s past, the story plays through a car radio—an artistic choice that might go unnoticed but speaks volumes about Coogler’s attention to detail. Cinema is a powerful thing, and Ryan Coogler, backed by a strong and intentional crew, brings to life a layered story that will be unpacked for years to come.

In this world, everyone is a sinner in their own way—flawed, surviving, reaching for something just out of grasp. With this labor of love, Coogler doesn’t just entertain. He remembers, reclaims, and reimagines history, asking us to confront what we carry, what we bury, and what still haunts us.

And what a vision, indeed.

Sing, Unburied, Sing.