In his horror debut, Ryan Coogler confronts the harsh truths that marginalized communities faced in segregated America—masterfully mixing in elements of the supernatural—all the while underscoring the enduring human need to find joy even in the darkest of times.

Sinners isn’t your usual go-to horror, from the way the first act starts you might even think it was a period piece showcasing the hardships of Black Americans. 

Set in rural Mississippi during the 1930s, the movie stars Michael B. Jordan pulling double duty as the twin gangsters Smoke and Stack—as they return to their hometown to start a juke joint for the local Black community. 

Even down to the iconography of the juke joint itself stands out for not only the layered nuance Coogler has so delicately crafted, but also as a symbol of Black joy. Often so precarious, even more so during the times this movie was set—it was more than just a place to hear the blues; it was a sanctuary for expression, connection, and release—created by and for Black Americans. 

Smoke and Stack’s determination to make their juke joint a haven for the local black community to come together greatly emphasizes this—even as they struggled to keep it afloat, serving patrons who often pay with nothing more than wooden nickels—and that's where the film really shines, tackling the various nuances that minorities faced at the time with such subtlety that it never feels forced or inauthentic. 

This sense of authenticity extends into the film’s spiritual layers, especially in its nuanced exploration of morality. Beyond the title’s reference to the passing of judgment, Sinners delves into contrasting belief systems despite each character’s inherent flaws—from Annie’s (Wunmi Mosaku) embrace of voodoo traditions to Preacherboy’s (Miles Caton) upbringing as the son of an Evangelical pastor— these threads of spirituality are interwoven with care, presenting morality not as binary, but as something deeply personal and culturally grounded.

Where other films may overcompensate in cultural portrayals, Sinners achieves a rare balance—rooting its messages through historical truths with subtlety.

Best seen in the movie’s representation of lesser-known cultures—from the Native American tribe of Choctaw to Remmick’s (Jack O’Connell) Irish folk-singing—the level of consideration and detail that the writers for this movie have made for its characters is one made with the utmost care and love. 

You can also see how this is further translated into the characters’ dynamics as they are crafted with precision—how Annie’s tension with Smoke is deeply rooted in not only their shared grief but also her conflicting voodoo spirituality with Smoke’s more belligerent and pragmatic lifestyle—to the contrast of Stack’s rebellious streak and Smoke’s discipline, elegantly told through Stack’s relationship and chemistry with his white ex-girlfriend, Mary (Hailee Steinfeld). 

Even through the twins recruiting Cornbread (Omar Miller), a sharecropper pulled straight from the cotton fields, to enlisting Grace (Li Jun Li) and Bo Chow (Yao), a presumably second-generation immigrant Chinese couple, as suppliers for the juke joint—Sinners carefully weaves together complex social dynamics. 

Each relationship, rooted in shared survival and struggle, builds toward a larger tension that ultimately explains the characters’ later predicament—without ever feeling forced or out of place. The film brilliantly captures intersectional struggles across cultural and historical lines, especially in that one scene where everyone dances to Preacherboy’s blues—a moment that evokes deep questions of morality and belonging, told with beauty and restraint.