This piece is co-authored as a collaborative academic analysis by Inga Laurent and Jessica Maucione, both university professors. Through a shared lens, the authors extrapolate cultural symbolism within the Oscar-winning movie by “Sinners,” offering a layered interpretation that explores ethnicity, religion, race, identity, and the deeper socio-political nuances that underscore freedom and oppression.
“Sinners” is brilliant and Ryan Kyle Coogler is a genius. Jess and I have shared our love of Coogler’s work – like Fruitvale Station and Creed – for over a decade, but this film far surpassed our expectations. Scores have already been written about Sinners. As fangirls, we were tempted to gush on, enamored by the love stories central to the film – both fictional (like Annie and Smoke) and real (like the way Ryan credits his producer wife, Zinzi, for the movie’s success). But as scholars – of law/justice (Inga) and literature (Jess) – we decided to focus on the subtle, well-constructed small moments that brought us back to the theater time and time again.
For Inga, the heart of “Sinners” lay in the film’s minutiae – in its quieter scenes, which displayed Coogler’s devotion to showcasing Black dignity and edification. Delroy Lindo’s somatic knee slapping and humming his way from grief to healing. Wunmi Mosaku’s “Elijah” and Hailee Steinfeld’s “Elias,” the only time we hear Smoke and Stack’s real names is from the mouths of the women who love them. The pride and pure awe emanating from Michael B. Jordan’s face when he (and the audience) first hear Miles Caton sing. And impeccably timed one-liners. Some comedic: “Y’all Klan?” and Jack O’Connor’s meme-worthy disbelief captured in one word “Sir.” And some touching, “she here ‘cause she family.”
For Jess, the heart of “Sinners” lay in the rarity of getting to experience a movie as literary. While Coogler credits Stephen King’s 1975 horror novel, “Salem’s Lot,” as an influence, he also did note that the “fearless vibrancy” Toni Morrison used to immortalize Black life informed the atmosphere of his film. Specifically, he praised her ability to blend “calm serenity” with a “gangster evisceration of white supremacy.” Jess sees “Sinners” as deeply allusive to Morrison. The film’s framing of the primacy of Black art in the U.S. across the continuous contexts of slavery, share-cropping, and the policing of Black life evokes the haunted American landscape of Morrison’s Beloved (1987). Sinners’ revaluation of the South and its communities recalls Morrison’s Home (2012). The blues as intergenerational Black language harkens back to Morrison’s Jazz (1992). Smoke’s advice to Sammie to find community with “proper Black folk” in the all-Black town of Mound Bayou alludes to Morrison’s exploration of the same in Paradise (1998). The missed opportunity of long-term interracial coalition-building on the basis of common interest that Coogler represents by his triangulation of Black, Chinese, and Choctaw folks and the would-be interracial community of vampires, Morrison also contemplated in A Mercy (2008). These little and literary joys are seamlessly woven, threaded together through a tapestry that add up to something quite grand.
Finally, we need to talk about Remmick and the subtleties in Coogler’s character – the oppressed turned oppressive anti-hero so desperate to belong he ends up destroying. In the burning barn scene, Autumn Durald Arkapaw (the first woman and woman of color to win an Oscar for Best Cinematographer) captures flames of covetous longing dancing within the character’s eyes. It couldn’t be more evident that he aches to commune. He pines for connection to a people enslaved by troubles who remain liberated in spirit through music, fellowship, love and deep ancestral connections. And perhaps the villain portrays Coogler’s subtlest truth. We’ve known our fair share of Remmicks.
This villain encapsulates vampirism through layered exploitation, representing capitalism and constructions of Whiteness in an American melting pot (for which Morrison famously said Black people served as the pot). Being Irish, Remmick comes from a colonized lineage, whose immigration is largely forced by oppressive conditions. While his character points to his past subjugation, Remmick fails to turn that experience into a basis for collectivism. Instead, Remmick revels in his own deranged interpretations, wreaking havoc on souls while shilling his version of “salvation.” But Remmick can’t offer any deliverance because his desire to become a savior overwhelms his desire for solidarity.
Annie had answers – sacred secrets safeguarded for seekers not extractors. Her faith prompted Annie to demand the unthinkable from Smoke, who ultimately frees her by driving a stake through her heart – not as an act of violence, but of love. Smoke/Elijah’s faith in this woman is rewarded in the end. Before laying slaughter to the supremacists, he rips off his protective mojo bag, ensuring a beautiful family reunification. Annie’s ancestral knowledge of non-linear realities where sweet relief waited was in fact what Remmick was after, but he was too blinded by his own corrupted visions to see.
And so, Remmick ends up manipulating the very people he longed to play music beside. Perhaps unforgivably, Remmick does his worst when he forces a false choice of “freedom,” stripping folks of the small measure of agency they possessed. In the end, Remmick finds release, even though he’s forced into it, Smoke finds real, everlasting love and peace, and Stack, well, he finds some measure of redemption. Stack retains some humanity by honoring his brother and the promises made by protecting his kin. In the final post-credit scene, Stack gives what Remmick denied – the dignity of autonomy. Stack offers to make his baby cousin immortal, but he relents, respecting the refusal when Sammie replies, “I think I’ve seen enough of this place.” In the final line of the film, Stack and Sammie contemplate liberation, recognizing that even though that night changed everything, in the end they agree “just for a few hours, we was free.”