Big Picture Big Sound

The primary thing that made Ryan Coogler such an inspired choice to helm Marvel's two "Black Panther" projects (so far) was how focused the director remained on ensuring that his singular vision as a filmmaker was not to be denied, not even from within the confines of Disney's superhero-run recycling plant. In a realm that had otherwise been reserved for anti-auteurs who fit a plug-and-play model - hired hands tickled pink at the prospect of turning comic books into uninspiring visual spectacles CGI'd within an inch of their lives- Coogler stayed true to himself. After all, the reason Marvel eyed him in the first place was because of what he managed to do with "Creed," a "Rocky" franchise offshoot that focused on Adonis, the son of Carl Weathers' Apollo Creed. But the form that 2015's "Creed" took had far more to do with Coogler's brilliance than it did the presence of Rocky himself (Sylvester Stallone) as the titular character's reluctant coach, epic training montages, and tired references to cheesesteaks. Which is what brought Coogler to Bob Iger's door in 2018: The promise of a young talent with familiar stories to tell in a fresh, exhilarating way.

With respect to those tentpole efforts, it's the expertise on display within them that makes it all the more exciting to have Coogler back in a world he gets to build from the inside out, even if that world is conceptually recognizable. As surprising as it is considering Coogler's status in the medium, his new film, "Sinners," is just the second "original" project he's been responsible for, and the first since his 2013 debut "Fruitvale Station." Yet it's clear from the jump that "Sinners" would never have been able to exist over a decade ago, not because its narrative (broadly speaking) wouldn't have been viable, but because it's one of a distinct few "vampire" films to feel like its filmmaker - and only that filmmaker - could be the one behind it. An epic drama that unfolds over the course of a single day in Clarksdale, Mississippi circa 1932, "Sinners" is a movie involving vampires, yes, but one that stuffs music, sex, race, cultural reparation, and above all, unflinching joy into the same blender containing religion, fangs, and cloves of garlic. That the resulting smoothie goes down as smooth as it does is a miracle, one that only Coogler could have possibly concocted.

Maybe it shouldn't be as much of a surprise to witness "Sinners'" relentless kineticism when you have the indelible image of a Wakandan dance festival taking place on the side of a stunning rocky waterfall at your disposal, but there's a nature to Coogler's action-thriller-horror-romance-musical-drama-comedy that feels like it was woven from an entirely different spool of Vibranium. Because he wants us to expect the unexpected, Coogler doesn't begin with an establishing shot of his twin-playing star (Michael B. Jordan) plotting his first move, but with a flash forward to the events that follow what most of "Sinners" will end up showing us. Instead, it's Sammie Moore (Miles Caton in a remarkable debut) who we meet first, the young, bloodied crooner stumbling into his father's chapel clutching the remains of his beloved guitar, screaming for help. Given what we know about "Sinners" from its overly-revealing trailers, we can assume that Sammie is frightened due to a violent encounter with some of Dracula's most vicious disciples. Yet before Sammie can truly consider his preaching father's demand to drop his guitar and release the demons that elders are convinced come from a life dedicated to music, we're shot back to where this all began: The morning before the carnage, rather than after, when two long-lost businessmen return to town with a new scheme, one that promises freedom and exultation to all who are willing to lend an ear.

In many ways, what Smoke and Stack (Jordan in a dual performance for the ages) are pitching sounds a lot like a heavenly sermon, though with how much passable sinning they intend to involve in their plans, it's difficult to see how God would ever turn a blind eye. The twins first move once they arrive back in Clarksdale is purchasing an abandoned barn from a racist white landlord with nothing but a dream and tens of thousands of Al Capone's dollars to their name. Their juke joint, they ensure, will be the ideal house of worship for Black townsfolk to descend upon after a long day's work; no cover charge, though be sure to buy booze aplenty and dance plenty more once inside, they urge potential customers. And because this is a movie that, while long-ish, wants your attention to remain unwavering, the joint must open that very night. It's a bold strategy, and we are nothing if not eager to see how it pays off for them.

Much of "Sinners"' first half is dedicated to the process of putting together this vibrant venue, but Coogler's version of the oft-truncated recruitment reel runs close to an hour, not a second of it wasted. We get to know a bit about both Smoke and Stack during this process, it quickly becoming clear that the blue-wearing former is "Sinners"' answer to Adonis Creed while the red-donning latter could be seen as a slightly less tortured (but similarly smirky) Erik Killmonger. They're damaged goods, to be sure, but not in the sense that either one will necessarily be forced to pay hell, just that they would rather dance with the devil than let him waltz all over them without putting up a proper fight. Sammie - their blues-playing cousin with God Given talent known up and down the Delta - tags along as they rope in the likes of Slim (Delroy Lindo in full comic relief mode), an alcoholic jukester who will emcee their grand opening over his regular nightly gig as long as he's paid handsomely in both cash and beer; the Chows ("Babylon" co-star Li Jun Li as Grace and Yao as Bo), who run the town grocery store and agree to supply snacks and a sign worthy of a serious saloon; Cornbread (Omar Benson Miller), an old pal still confined to the cotton fields who fits the corporeal characteristics and demeanor of a proper bouncer; and, most notably, Annie (the terrific Wunmi Mosaku), the local healer with whom Smoke has a haunted romantic past. The set-up may take a minute to sink your teeth into given the pace at which it sprints, but it's all part of Coogler's necessary prologue to what is right around the corner: An unforgettable night on which songs will be sung and blood will be sucked.

Of course, we can't abruptly be introduced to Remmick, Jack O'Connell's toothy vampire who brings assurances of painless immortality, without a bit more narrative jargon, though Coogler's exposition in "Sinners" has much less to do with plot than it does his desire to make this story feel like something general audiences should give a hoot about. He does so by trusting Jordan's charismatic physical presence - never a bad idea, especially when the superstar is operating at the level he is here - but more than that, by showcasing his newcomer's talent as a songster. While Miles Caton's audition tape was filmed in the dark, the "once in a lifetime" voice Coogler heard in its audio steps into the spotlight in "Sinners," and is prominently/justifiably featured both on the film's soundtrack, but also as its beating heart. It's no mistake that Sammie is the first face to appear on screen, and it's also no mistake that right before seeing him, the aforementioned Mosaku's narration speaks of music "so pure it can pierce the veil between life and death, past and future." That this music is Sammie's isn't shoved down our throat so much as it is blissfully, astonishingly serenaded into our senses, Caton's Aloe Blacc-like timbre and vibrato working as effectively with Ludwig Göransson's score as the atomic bomb did in the composer's work on "Oppenheimer."

While "biggest" rarely means "best" or "most important," the scene that most beautifully utilizes both tuneful technicians and comes at "Sinners"' emotional climax serves as the exception to the rule. A show-stopping moment heavy on musicality and identity, it's a song-and-dance number that gives a different sort of meaning to that "piercing the veil between life and death, past and future" that Annie mentioned off the top. Nothing else should be shared nor read about the sequence before it is seen for itself, but it's worth considering the way audiences have become far too comfortable with the idea that they were "floating" during a particularly cinematic moment when thinking about it. If there was ever a time to use such terminology, it would be in response to Caton's lyricism and the harmonious tenacity that vibrates through Göransson's accompaniment and Coogler's lens, then out into the theater. A few different characters do actually levitate during "Sinners," making it that much more of a wonder that none felt their feet lift from the ground as Sammie picked up his guitar and sang them toward what they all would have been right to believe might be a semblance of freedom.

That's where Remmick comes in, an outsider who would greatly appreciate an invitation inside the SmokeStack twins juke joint, one that they are wary to offer even before his eyes flash red and his canines extend into fangs. He may look like a good ol' Southern boy looking for a place to belong on the outside, but within fester centuries of torment dating back to the abolishment of the Irish Parliament in 1800. While Coogler is far more interested (and rightfully so) in depicting what being Black in the Jim Crow South looked like in the early decades of the 20th Century, even that dominant thread isn't possible without his courage and willingness to dot every i and cross every t. Look no further than Hailee Steinfeld's Mary as a perfect example: An actor whose maternal grandfather was half-Black, she plays a white-passing woman who is an old flame of Stack's and a potential threat to those who don't recognize her now that she's aged a bit since leaving Clarksdale to marry a wealthy white dude. It isn't long before Remmick and his first turnees notice how out of place she theoretically looks dancing in lock-step with Jayme Lawson's Pearline, a Black woman who married into means yet nonetheless requires an evening away from the prim and proper life she's come to know. Who better to bite than the odd woman out?

There's a lot happening here. A lot. Narratively, there are holes abound, those that are merely glossed over in favor of more stylistic flair in a film that is already pretty heavy on that latter quality. But there's something to be said for a filmmaker exorcising his own franchise-inflicted demons in a movie so keen on assaulting your visual, audible, and tactile senses that it occasionally loses the forest for its own glorious, sky-scraping trees, and something more to be said for a filmmaker exhibiting tangible ecstasy in doing so. In a world where the filmmaking commoner is just as incapable of lighting faces that don't look like theirs as they are writing cliche-free lines that lack humanity, nuance, or an outright rejection of stereotype, Coogler's eye - projected to the screen in big, bold, beautiful 65mm photography from Autumn Durald Arkapaw, the director's should-be forever cinematographer in the aftermath of their collaboration on "Wakanda Forever" and now "Sinners" - is a breath of fresh air that we can all but see entering and exiting his lungs. The same goes for the score Coogler undoubtedly had a hand in crafting, Michael P. Shawver's sharp edit that he evidently ran through repeatedly with the world's finest-toothed comb, and the story he birthed from his own dreams and nightmares. If you'd rather spend two-and-a-half hours with mindless genre fare that prefers ease over excellence, "Sinners" might not be your kind of night out on the town. But rational thinking would argue that such a mindset is just as vampiric, if not more so, than anything the bloodsucking buzzards circling Coogler's tour de force fifth feature get up to during its runtime. To massage a quote from "Bram Stoker's Dracula," I'd rather float in this sea of wonders.