Sinners

In Sinners, directed by Ryan Coogler, cinema doesn't just come to life, it soars. What begins as a slow, atmospheric portrait of 1930s Mississippi blossoms into a fascinating mosaic of genres, a feverish dream steeped in blues where horror, musical comedy, and socio-historical epic not only coexist but dance, bleed, and burn together. Watching this film, one cannot help but feel the pulse of a director totally liberated from the constraints of commercial cinema, free to create something as chaotic and beautiful as the region he depicts. It is a work of unbridled creative fervor, full of contradictions: rooted in the earth and cotton, yet transcendent; sensual yet spiritual; steeped in genre homage yet fiercely original. The ghosts of American cinema haunt every frame, from Ganja & Hess and The Shining to Phantom of the Paradise and From Dusk Till Dawn, but Coogler doesn't just imitate. He samples, shreds, and reconstructs with the ecstasy of a bluesman building a solo out of generational pain.

What strikes you almost immediately is the attention to texture: the scratching of a blues riff resonating through weathered wood, the sticky humidity that hangs over every frame, the impression that even the light is heavy. Set in Clarksdale in 1932, Sinners follows the return of twin brothers Smoke and Stack, both played by a mesmerizing Michael B. Jordan, to their hometown after spending years fighting in World War I and working for Al Capone. Their plan is simple but steeped in history: they've brought alcohol, money, and the ambition to buy a dilapidated sawmill and turn it into a juke joint, a sanctuary dedicated to joy, sin, and self-determination, far from the prying eyes of white people. But this is the South, and as Smoke ironically points out, Chicago is “just Mississippi with tall buildings.” A line that sounds like blues lyrics: bitter, lucid, and fatalistic.

Michael B. Jordan's dual performance is revealing: a career high that showcases not only his physical dexterity but also his emotional range. Smoke and Stack are not distinguished by their costumes or prosthetics (although Ruth E. Carter's costumes subtly reinforce their polarities through color), but by their attitude, their gaze, their breathing. Stack smiles like a devil hiding secrets; Smoke observes, watches, calculates. Seeing them share the screen is like watching a jazz duo in perfect counterpoint. The choreography of the performance—the gesture of passing a cigarette from hand to hand, the shared memories mixed with mutual recriminations—is fluid, but what resonates most is the amount of grief and nostalgia Jordan infuses into every gesture. One brother wants to build a legacy. The other wants to surpass it.

And then there's Sammie, played by newcomer Miles Caton in what can only be described as a generational debut. Nicknamed Preacher Boy, he's a young guitarist with the haunted soul of a man three times his age. When he finally takes the stage at the juke joint—a scene already anticipated as decisive—the film explodes. The performance becomes not only an unforgettable musical moment, but also a metaphysical portal. Ryan Coogler breaks time itself: West African dancers appear alongside breakdancers, tribal rhythms intertwine with rock solos, turntables scratch over gospel moans. It's absurd, daring, and overwhelming. It reminded me of that rare phenomenon in cinema where, for a moment, you feel like something sacred is happening on screen. Think of the end of Whiplash or the Time sequence in Interstellar, but through the prism of Black cultural expression. The roof is literally on fire. And the camera, before rising up into the embers, lingers on the ecstasy, as if to say: this is what freedom looks like, even if it only lasts a second.

But Sinners doesn't just linger in ecstasy. The euphoria of the music, of black joy, calls on something darker. The vampires arrive, not with fangs bared, but in the form of intrusive white musicians, led by the serpent Remmick (Jack O'Connell, all oily charm and silent menace), who knock on the club door and politely ask to come in. Ryan Coogler handles the vampire legend with surgical precision: the need for an invitation becomes a frightening metaphor for cultural appropriation and assimilation. These aren't just bloodsuckers, they're soul suckers, sucking talent, vitality, and identity in the name of unity. It's no coincidence that their musical pieces gradually shift from picturesque Irish ballads to rootless interpretations of Black music. Ryan Coogler shows how sound empires are built on bodies.

One scene in particular stood out to me: the one where Annie, Smoke's ex and the town's hoodoo witch, played with poignant empathy by Wunmi Mosaku, understands the rules of the vampires. She organizes a garlic test that is an undeniable homage to Carpenter's film The Thing, but here there is no wink. The horror is elemental, primitive. It's in the way the shadows lengthen in the juke joint. In the way the music flickers. In the way the camera, which previously danced freely, now creeps around as if something is watching us. The horror in Sinners isn't just supernatural, it's systemic. It's the fear of knowing that joy is always fleeting, that safety is never permanent, and that the price of being Black and free in America is often your life, or worse, your soul.

The ensemble surrounding Michael B. Jordan and Miles Caton is impeccable. Delroy Lindo, as the drunken but magnetic Delta Slim, plays his scenes like a man scraping at memory itself, every note steeped in bourbon and regret. Mary, played by Hailee Steinfeld, and Pearline, played by Jayme Lawson, both defy the usual clichés of romantic interests by embodying women with a will of their own, pain, and complicated pasts. And then there's the Chinese shopkeeper couple, Li Jun Li and Yao, who subtly underscore the theme of multiracial solidarity in a landscape marked by exclusion. Each supporting character seems to have a life of their own, a world apart. That's rare in big-budget genre cinema.

Visually, the film is a total success. Autumn Durald Arkapaw's IMAX photography oscillates between sun-scorched realism and baroque stylization, but always with a clear purpose. The cotton fields, the candlelit interior of the juke joint, the dusty roads: every setting seems mythical. And when violence erupts, it's worthy of an opera: blood spatters like a song, gunshots echo like percussion. Ludwig Göransson's soundtrack, a dizzying collage of blues, Afrobeat, R&B, and industrial noise, doesn't accompany the film—it owns it.

If there is one criticism to be made, it is one shared by many ambitious films: Sinners goes too far. Some of the storylines, particularly those concerning the assimilation of vampires and the indigenous vampire hunters, deserve to be explored in greater depth. Despite all its twists and turns, the second half of the film rushes into confrontations that could have been allowed to simmer longer. Yet even in its excess, Sinners never feels cynical. It's bursting with the urgency of a filmmaker who knows how rare this opportunity is. Like the characters he portrays, Ryan Coogler seems to be chasing something fleeting: a communion between past and present, pain and pleasure, reality and myth. And he's damn close to achieving it.

When the credits roll, we remain seated, listening to the haunting music. Not because of a post-credits scene (although there is one, a magnificent coda with Buddy Guy that really touched us deeply), but because we feel exhausted and won over by an unforgettable film. Sinners isn't just one of the most daring films of the year, it's a film that knows exactly what it wants to say about race, culture, art, and America, and says it in a way that no other filmmaker would dare to. It needs to be seen in the theater, felt in your gut, and debated long after. Ryan Coogler hasn't just made a vampire movie. He's composed a requiem. A blues opera. A conjuration. A reminder that even in darkness, black art doesn't just survive: it saves. Our huge favorite of the year.

Sinners
Written and directed by Ryan Coogler
Produced by Zinzi Coogler, Sev Ohanian, Ryan Coogler
Starring Michael B. Jordan, Hailee Steinfeld, Miles Caton, Jack O'Connell, Wunmi Mosaku, Jayme Lawson, Omar Miller, Buddy Guy, Delroy Lindo, Li Jun Li
Cinematography: Autumn Durald Arkapaw
Edited by Michael P. Shawver
Music by Ludwig Göransson
Production companies: Warner Bros. Pictures, Proximity Media
Distributed by Warner Bros. Pictures
Release date: April 16, 2025 (France), April 18, 2025 (United States)
Running time: 138 minutes

Seen on April 16, 2025 at Gaumont Disney Village, Theater Imax, seat E19

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