When Edgar Wright dropped out of directing the first Ant-Man movie for Marvel, pretty much everybody agreed that it was for the best. He ended up making the wholly original Baby Driver instead. Ditto for Ava DuVernay, who passed on directing Black Panther for the studio. They went with Ryan Coogler, who delivered a true cultural touchstone; Black Panther became the first superhero movie to earn a Best Picture nod at the Oscars and catapulted Coogler into a club normally restricted to white visionaries such as Steven Spielberg and Christopher Nolan. But it seems like Coogler always knew that the invite was conditional; while his white counterparts could go on to do whatever they wanted next, as a Black filmmaker with one blockbuster under his belt, he’d have to provide further proof of his capacity to comply — a guarantee, if you will, before he could be allowed to make something as audacious as his fifth feature, Sinners.
Coogler’s first original movie in over a decade, Sinners is many things. But it’s also a reflection on his partnership with Marvel. Making one movie for the studio felt like a necessary stepping stone to get to where he wanted, but returning for a sequel, Black Panther: Wakanda Forever, had the unmistakable whiff of contractual compromise. Even with a $250 million budget at his disposal — for context, SS Rajamouli could make four RRRs for this amount — it still felt like Coogler was chained to master who was profiteering off of his culture. His two Marvel movies certainly did a lot for the Black community, but you can’t ignore the fact that they also made a lot of white people a lot of money. The filmmaker literally wrestles with this conflict in Sinners, where the two sides of his personality are represented by the SmokeStack twins, played by Michael B Jordan.
Michael B. Jordan headlines Ryan Coogler’s Sinners.
One is clearly more cautious than the other. When he refuses to join hands with a group of white vampires — essentially a metaphor for assimilation — he is accused by his more cutthroat brother of lacking ‘vision’. And when they wrestle each other to the ground in the film’s blood-soaked third act, it is as much a battle of ideologies as it is a biblical beat-down. Smoke and Stack had rolled into town — rural Mississippi, circa 1932 — earlier that morning, claiming to have left behind their gangster ways in Chicago. They spent the day recruiting old friends and acquaintances to help them convert an old barn into a blues club. The grand opening would take place the same evening, with a fully-stocked bar of Irish beer and Italian wine, and all the food that their working-class clientele could afford.
The main attraction is their young cousin Sammie, played by newcomer Miles Caton. The son of a preacher man, Sammie has the voice of an angel and a guitar that weeps so gently that God Himself would forgive us our trespasses. The film’s opening voiceover alludes to rare talent like Sammie’s, and music “so pure it can pierce the veil between life and death, past and future.” Another stand-in for Coogler, Sammie embodies the age-old dilemma that must plague most artists. Should he pursue his passion and risk being exploited, or worse, persecuted? Or should he keep to himself, preserving his perceived superpower for those who will truly respect it?
Sammie is warned by his father about the supernatural spell that blues music could cast on people, and is forbidden to play the guitar for fear that he unwittingly summons the devil — a representation of greed. In Sinners, this ‘devil’ is presented as an Irish immigrant vampire named Remmick, played by Jack O’Connell. He exists, literally, to leech off of folks like Sammie by luring them to his side with the promise of money and ‘mauj’. Is it a stretch to draw a parallel between Remmick and Hollywood? Not really. Coogler admits that he sold a part of his soul to the devil by agreeing to make (at least one of) his Marvel films. The other half, represented by Stack, resisted this temptation.
He was always the less calculating of the two, unburdened by the deep loss that Smoke has had to carry for the last decade. Earlier, when patrons asked for discounts on liquor and food, he allowed it despite Smoke’s stern reminder that they are businessmen first. “This ain’t no house party; this ain’t no charity. We takin’ cash,” Smoke said to him. When Remmick offered them cold coins in exchange of an invitation into the establishment, Stack’s eyes briefly lit up, but Smoke remained suspicious. He warned Sammie to leave worldly pursuits behind and retreat into a supposed haven for Black people — sort of like Wakanda — where he would be safe. He’s seen what society can do to people like Sammie, a symbol of Black excellence with a voice so magical that it summoned a horde of actual vampires towards him. They offered him something quite undeniable: the opportunity to immortalise himself and his art.
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A still from Ryan Coogler’s Sinners.
What is the role of a Black artist in America? Is assimilation the only option? Is dealing with the devil you know better than the devil you don’t? “White folks like the blues just fine,” says Delta Slim, an ornery old drunk who’s seen it all. “They just don’t like the people who make it.” In Sinners, Coogler comes to terms with the fact that he will one day outlive his usefulness. The ‘sinner’ that he is, he will be cast out of Hollywood the moment he delivers his first stinker. But if the film’s climactic scene is anything to go by, he doesn’t regret contributing to the death of culture by making a highly questionable superhero sequel. If he’s going to hell, he’s going to save us all a seat.
Post Credits Scene is a column in which we dissect new releases every week, with particular focus on context, craft, and characters. Because there’s always something to fixate about once the dust has settled.
