Review: Sinners by Ryan Coogler Is a Masterclass in Black History, Music, and Memory
A deeply personal reflection on watching Coogler’s powerful new film while traveling in Lisbon
I watched Sinners during a holiday in Lisbon with my friend John, and I'm still reflecting on its impact. I’d already seen so much online—reviews, praise, critiques, historical deep-dives—which made me anxious about my expectations for the film. That kind of noise can dull a first watch, weigh it down with expectation. But somehow, Ryan Coogler’s work cut through all of it. The film demanded my attention. It gave me no choice but to feel.`
Sinners is more than a film . It pulls up roots. It remembers. It reckons. Coogler takes on histories that have long been buried, minimized, or distorted—through the story of Charley Patton, one of the foundational figures of the Delta Blues, he opens a door into so many overlapping, entangled legacies: the music, yes, but also the violence that surrounded it. The Choctaw Nation and Native displacement. The arrival of Irish and Asian immigrants. The dominance of Christianity in the South, and how it was used both as a tool of salvation and suppression. The looming threat of white terror. The resistance found in culture, language, and sound.
The historical precision of the film is staggering—not as a cold academic exercise, but as something alive. Everything breathes. Nothing is static. These aren’t textbook references—they are characters, voices, scars, songs. And Coogler doesn’t flatten any of it. He lets each story be fully itself.
And then there’s the music.
The way Sinners handles music left me breathless. It isn’t just a soundtrack or narrative device—it’s a spiritual force. It carries memory and belief. It reminds you of who you are. It functions like daily affirmations—what you sing, what you say, what you believe. There’s a clear critique of how Christianity (and colonial religion more broadly) tried to police and suppress this music, especially when it emerged from Black or Indigenous cultures. But Coogler doesn’t stop there—he shows how that same music became a tool of survival. Of joy. Of defiance. Of healing. It’s not just a sound—it’s a form of prayer.
Watching the film in Portugal with Portuguese subtitles—especially during the Mandarin and Choctaw scenes—added another layer of distance. But even with that language gap, the emotion came through completely. Coogler’s direction, the actors’ performances, the cinematography—it all communicates something deeper than words. You feel it in your body.
And speaking of bodies—this part matters deeply to me.
One of the things I loved most, and one of the reasons Sinners moved me so profoundly, was the casting. All of the Black characters in the film were dark-skinned. Not light-skinned proxies for Blackness. Not ambiguously cast to soften the edges for a broader market. Dark-skinned. Black. Full stop. And the love interest? A dark-skinned, plus-sized Black woman. It shouldn’t feel revolutionary, but it does. It’s still so rare to see that kind of beauty, softness, and desirability centered onscreen, especially in a mainstream film. These are the kinds of roles that too often get pushed to the margins—to comic relief, best friend, or background filler. Not here. In Sinners, they are the heart.
For that, I deeply respect Ryan Coogler. He made a choice. He chose to center the people who are usually erased, minimized, or sidelined. He chose to make them visible. Not as symbols or statements, but as full human beings. With desire. With pain. With power.
As a longtime admirer of Christopher Nolan—someone whose craft, structure, and attention to sonic detail I really value (read this)—I can say with confidence: Coogler is working at that level. But in his own language. His own rhythm. His own spirit. And he goes further, I think, in how he treats emotion, community, and embodiment. Nolan’s films often live in the mind. Coogler’s live in the soul.
I know I’ll need to watch Sinners again. Probably more than once. It’s not the kind of film you “understand” in a single sitting.
You sit with it. You return to it.
Like a spiritual, like a song passed down across generations.
Every time, you hear something new.
Every time, you remember something more.
This isn’t just cinema. It’s culture. It’s resistance. It’s love.
And I’m grateful to have witnessed it.