Sinners

When the SmokeStack twins (Michael B. Jordan) bombastically return to Clarksdale, Mississippi after seven years in the big city with Al Capone, it feels like director Ryan Coogler is speaking directly to the audience. It's been seven years since he and Jordan (along with a few others) completely took over popular culture, forcing anyone who dared ignore their spectacular prior work to pay attention. While they've separately had large financial and critical successes in the years since, the truly special spark of their collaboration has been missing. As soon as Jordan appears on screen, the film begins to crackle with an energy by which you cannot help but be enthralled.

Although the twins share protagonist duties with their younger cousin, "Preacher Boy" Sammie Moore, played by Miles Caton in his feature film debut. And what a debut it is! He somehow manages to hold his own most of the time he's on screen with Jordan. Of course your eyes will snap to Jordan, but that was just as true when he shared the screen with the late great Chadwick Boseman, so it's purely a testament to Jordan's other-worldly skill, not a condemnation of Caton's.

As good as Caton is at bringing a soulful weariness to such a young character (he looks to be around twenty or so?), nothing, absolutely nothing, could have prepared me for his singing voice. Holy shit. When Sammie first plays his guitar for Stack, a lovely instrument which supposedly once belonged to Charlie Patton, a joyful smile comes across his face as the older man recognizes just how talented his cousin has become. But as soon as Sammie opens his mouth, and starts belting out one of the many outstanding blues songs featured in the film, Stack's face drops into astonishment. He cannot believe what he is hearing, and frankly, neither can we. He does a double, triple, quadruple take, before whooping with glee and pride, and it was all I could do to refrain from doing the same.

So it should come as no surprise that music is a core part of the story. We open with a beautiful and haunting passage about its supernatural power in the hands of special practitioners, an ominous warning that talent attracts the attention of all types, including undesirables. Smoke and Stack intend to open a juke joint that very night, and spend their day spreading the word and inviting all the black folks in town, including recruiting people to help make it happen. They include shopkeepers Grace and Bo Chow (Li Jun Li and Yao), Hoodoo healer and Smoke's former lover Annie (Wunmi Mosaku), and a married blues singer whom Sammie is sweet on named Pearline (Jayme Lawson). Delta Slim (Delroy Lindo), a fantastic player in his own right, is their biggest get, and he quickly develops a friendly rivalry with Sammie. They lure him away from his regular gig to open their juke, which leads to an impromptu performance at the train station, a sneak-preview of the collaboration between Sammie and Slim which will power the evening.

When I say power the evening, I could barely be underselling it more. The central set piece of the whole film is like nothing I've ever seen, an orgasmic explosion of the glory and power and beauty of music that had me in tears. It's the twisting together of music from the past, present, and future, of styles that have emerged primarily from the African diaspora, both visually and sonically. As the camera winds through the juke in an impressive and immersive long take which refuses to let you look away for a single breath, the music grows and morphs and takes on new elements, each accompanied by the appropriate cultural performers. We see a space-age electric guitarist, a tribal drum circle, DJ with turntables, old Negro spirituals, hear the melody of catchy hip-hop tracks, and so much more. There's even some strains of an erhu along with dancers in traditional Chinese dress, reminding us that every group of immigrants bring along their own deep musical history. It also makes clear that the Chows are an important part of this small black community, despite coming from a different lineage.

This and more make it clear that Coogler values community above all else, and views threats to it as the ultimate evil. Especially when those threats come in the form of a false (if questionably well-meaning) unity from people who've no ability to understand who they are and where they come from. Case in point: when a trio of white folk show up at the juke, the symbol of their difference is most starkly their music. Not that it's bad - after a smirking joke at its expense, we see Stack and Cornbread (Omar Benson Miller) and a few others bob along to it in enjoyment. But it's so much lower energy, clearly born of a different time and circumstance. Even later on, when their leader Remmick (Jack O’Connell) is afforded the opportunity to fully broadcast the soul of his Irish ancestry through a gorgeous and deeply moving folk song, it's just so clearly from another world. Where the music coming from the juke is a celebration of life, a defiant joy in the face of oppression, Remmick's is more mournful, a deep expression of very real pain. Coogler isn't making a value judgement, but he is making clear the ways in which they are not the same.

Everything I've described, plus the many, many things I have not, are conveyed through an absolutely sterling script. The dialog sparkles throughout, replete with post-Depression terminology and back slang, characters nimbly navigating their layered and nuanced relationships. At no point does Coogler stop to dump exposition, instead seamlessly weaving it into personal interactions and background details, rendering it a natural part of conversation. Little moments between characters which play no part in the larger story speak volumes about their history and their present, and shed light on what their future may be. For example, it's not particularly relevant that Smoke and Annie were a thing. But it builds the depths of both of their characters, giving them reason to spit venom at each other when Smoke walks into her cabin, making it equally understandable for that bitterness to fall into passionate lovemaking, and adding stakes later on as the threat of violence mounts.

On top of all that, it's damn hilarious. There's no purely comic relief character, although Delta Slim's whole demeanor is broadly humorous. Rather, it's the natural interaction of human beings, especially those as cocky as the twins. It's the way everyone has each other so well figured out that conversation is a friendly sparring match, and each little laugh line is a strike landed in an attempt to knock the opponent off balance. To say nothing of how infectious the twins' overall cheerful and confident vibe is as they stare adversity in the face.

None of this would work without spot on performances, and this movie has them in spades. I've called attention to Jordan and Caton already, but every single person on screen is firing on all cylinders, including the as yet unmentioned Mary, Stack's resentful ex-flame, portrayed by Hailee Steinfeld. Each relationship exudes the kind of energy which can only come from knowing each other for decades, despite many of the actors never having worked together before. They're casual and ferocious and raw and electric. When the movie finally draws to a close, the anguish you feel is in part from knowing that your time with these people is over - well, until your next viewing.

The craft departments are a murderer's row of the best of the best the industry has to offer. Ludwig Göransson composed the music, as he has for every Coogler film (including his shorts), which makes it a given that every song in the film is brilliant. The impressive camerawork comes courtesy of Autumn Durald Arkapaw, Gia Coppola's long-time cinematographer, who renders the most mundane shots beautiful and has a knack for choosing the most interesting compositions and lighting schemes. Which is even more impressive when you consider the added complication of Jordan playing twins who not only frequently share the screen, but constantly interact. The costuming is handled by the legendary Ruth Carter, so needless to say the period clothing effectively and precisely evokes the early 30s. Hannah Beachler, another prestigious long-time Coogler collaborator, takes point on the production design, responsible in large part for how immersed you'll become in the world. All of which just focuses on the most visible facets: absolutely everyone in the long list of credits were on point the whole time.

It's been a slow start to the year for movies. Given the chaos and cruelty of the world right now, I certainly feel the lack of quality distractions more acutely. But I'm far from the only one bemoaning the dearth of quality films in the first three months: I've encountered that sentiment across podcasts, professional reviews, social media, conversations with friends, etc. The brightest light has been Black Bag, while many others that showed great potential just couldn't land the plane. However, it's far too early to declare this year a wash, and Sinners is an example as to why. Last week saw what will likely remain the most upsetting film of the year in Warfare, and now now Coogler has blessed us with this masterpiece. It's easily the best film of the year so far, as well as his best film, surpassing even the fantastic Creed. I fully expect this to make an appearance on my year-end wrap-up. And if it doesn't? Then I'll know this soft start was just a fluke on the path to one of the best movie years in recent memory.

Lord knows we could all use that right now.