There is an age-old myth about blues legend Robert Johnson. As the story goes, Johnson met the devil at a crossroads and sold his soul in exchange for unparalleled guitar prowess. This perennial fable, rooted in American folklore and the haunting melodies of the Deep South, lies at the heart of Ryan Coogler’s latest film, Sinners, a supernatural drama merging blues heritage with gothic horror.
Sinners follows twin brothers Smoke and Stack Moore (both played by Michael B. Jordan), prodigal sons who return to their Mississippi Delta hometown in 1932 to seek redemption after thriving as gangsters in Chicago’s bootlegging underworld alongside Al Capone. They invest their ill-gotten wealth in a juke joint — a vibrant dive bar pulsing with liquor, blues, and jazz. The contrast between their flashy arrival in a sporty convertible, clad in pinstripe suits and bowler hats, and the bleakness of their hometown scarred by the Great Depression is among the film’s visual triumphs.
Coogler’s direction shines through his vivid portrayal of the era’s economic despair, with the Delta’s dusty roads and dilapidated shacks serving as a stark backdrop. His meticulous attention to period detail, including costumes, slang, and the juke joint’s smoky ambiance, grounds the film in historical authenticity, even as it builds toward supernatural horror.
Jordan expertly distinguishes his dual roles, inhabiting each brother so convincingly that I frequently forgot both characters were played by the same actor. His demeanor shifts seamlessly from Smoke, the reserved, ruthless pragmatist who doesn’t hesitate to shoot a miscreant pickpocket in the kneecap, to Stack, the charismatic, smooth-talking salesman. Yet the standout of Coogler’s casting is the previously unknown Miles Caton, a veritable blues talent (you can find videos online showcasing his deep, baritone timbre) who makes a remarkable acting debut as Sammie Moore, a pastor’s son torn between his passion for music and his father’s insistent call to faith.
Sinners juggles a multitude of themes, ranging from faith and racism to the transcendent power of music. But its central question asks whether we can outgrow past sins or remain naturally inclined toward temptation.
“If you keep dancing with the devil, one day he’s going to follow you home,” Sammie’s father warns in an early scene.
Spanning nearly 2 and 1/2 hours, the film’s first two acts introduce its characters and flesh out their backstories, culminating with the grand opening of the juke joint. There isn’t much action initially, but Coogler’s filmmaking talents make these quieter moments effortlessly compelling. Against his father’s stern objections, Sammie packs his guitar and leaves with his slick-suited cousins, Smoke and Stack, whom his father dismisses as sinners. After acquiring an abandoned building, the trio recruits musicians, bartenders, and cooks — everything required for a lavish, booze- and dance-fueled opening night.
Coogler’s love for Delta blues permeates the film, with a soundtrack of slide guitar and harmonica weaving scenes together. The film’s standout moment occurs when Sammie, jamming with the juke joint’s band, unleashes a performance so powerful it transcends time and pierces through reality, connecting ancient drum circles, ’80s electric guitar solos, and contemporary hip-hop rhythms. Coogler’s dynamic visuals, filled with vibrant colors and fluid edits, all while flames envelop the club, blurring the lines between the physical and spiritual realms, elevate this musical ritual into a celebration of blues as a uniquely American art form, pioneered by black Americans in the South.
The film’s third act — the final 45 minutes — shifts gears dramatically, as the subtle hints of evil and temptation manifest literally as vampires, thrusting the audience into a gothic survival thriller that, surprisingly, works just as well as the earlier narrative. The first two hours, rich in gangster aesthetics and Prohibition-era intrigue, provide such an engaging backdrop that Coogler might consider revisiting this world as a stand-alone concept.
Albeit an unusual turn at first glance, the vampires add intriguing depth to Coogler’s exploration of faith and temptation. They offer their prey a seductive promise: eternal life in a hedonistic utopia, free from segregation, racism, or economic hardship at the steep cost of one’s soul. Here, Sammie decisively rejects sin, instead reciting the Lord’s Prayer, grounding the film in a profoundly Christian ethos.
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In an era where diversity in film can sometimes feel forced and performative, Sinners avoids such pitfalls with its organic and purposeful casting. The predominantly black ensemble, led superbly by Jordan and Caton, authentically embodies the story’s exploration of African American identity, the birth of the blues, and resilience in the Jim Crow South. Supported by strong performances from talents such as Wunmi Mosaku and Delroy Lindo, the cast feels integral to and inseparable from Coogler’s vision.
Folklore may have invented and immortalized Johnson’s decision to trade his soul for dexterous fingerpicking, but if Coogler continues making films such as Sinners, he might soon inspire similar suspicions about the origins of his talents.
Harry Khachatrian (@Harry1T6) is a film critic for the Washington Examiner’s Beltway Confidential blog. He is a software engineer, holds an MBA from the University of Toronto, and writes about wine at BetweenBottles.com.