here are legends of people born with the gift of making music …” The opening narration speaks of healing communities, conjuring spirits, and attracting evil, just barely hinting at the events to come; it could almost be mistaken for the common concept of the blues being a sinful sort of style. But when a bloodied young man wanders into a church in 1932 Mississippi, carrying a guitar and bearing large gashes across his face and body, staring off into the distance as if possessed, it becomes more apparent the direction this film will take. Paired with sudden flashes of violent imagery from a day earlier, “Sinners” is about to take an unexpected turn.

Indeed, it’s curious when twin brothers Smoke (Michael B. Jordan) and Stack (also Michael B. Jordan) turn up from Chicago, seamlessly appearing side by side, interacting casually while passing a cigarette back and forth, as if immediately showing off the ways in which technology has advanced so much that audiences can’t tell how the trick is done or where the computer augmentation starts and stops. As the sharply-suited, quick-witted, fashionable duo set about purchasing an old, disused sawmill to open up their very own juke joint – a raucous establishment intended to maintain their sense of swagger and the high roller status they enjoyed in the big city, but away from the troubles they attracted from notorious gangsters – a continuously plucked guitar keeps a certain tempo and rhythm in the background. It presides over the establishment of characters and their reputations, along with dark pasts, while promising engaging future encounters. And the picture wastes no time with unnecessary details, though there are a lot of them; every location change and new persona feels purposeful.

“You keep dancing with the devil, one day it’s gonna follow you home.” The attention to character development is phenomenal. Every role is idiosyncratic and unique, aided spectacularly by period-piece set designs (and imagery, including racist components from the ‘30s), costuming, dialogue/accents, and props. “Sinners” is initially interested in transporting viewers to a specific era and locale – and it does it so well that it’s easy to forget that this isn’t a straightforward drama. The focus on music is likewise wholehearted; the characters seem to use it to convey themselves to different times and places in their lives, momentarily bringing audiences with them, as if experiencing a flashback without the visualization. As the twins gather up recruits for their impromptu speakeasy, including little cousin Sammie Moore (Miles Caton), piano player Delta Slim (Delroy Lindo), bartender Grace (Li Jun Li), and bouncer Cornbread (Omar Benson Miller), while crossing paths with various other faces from their checkered origins – such as the bitter white woman Mary (Hailee Steinfeld) – the plot grows so authentically grounded that it almost appears as if it won’t change course at all.

“He’s not what he seems.” But, out of nowhere – and quite abruptly – the film’s horror components creep up. It’s almost unfortunate when they arrive; the mood, the hints at lost loves, and the complicated ways in which the main roles relate their histories are absorbing, elevated by a nuanced script. The premise, however, is essentially a highly intricate, extensive front – or distraction – for something else entirely. The intense roles and the clear passion for blues music (and beyond) is quite potent; so when it leaps away in a striking genre switch-up, it’s difficult to dismiss the authenticity from before to fully embrace the chaos of the shift. It abandons the considerable realism and sensibleness for supernatural thrills, which simply aren’t capable of maintaining the same credibility. “Somethin’ ain’t addin’ up.”

Perhaps most disappointing for this mostly spontaneous transition is the disbelief; despite witnessing extremely abnormal happenings, the characters push back, insistent that what they’re seeing surely can’t be taking place. And they continue to behave as if intentionally ignoring the outrageous things that continue to unfold. Fortunately, the makeup and gore are well done, while the music remains key (it’s essentially a character of its own), transcending storytelling and its cohesion. As it ramps up to its explosive finale, examining freedoms, destinies, duality, forgiveness, sacrifice, and it’s own special take on vampirism (as if a religious rite or symbolism of an inescapable fate for transgressors), the freshness outweighs the problems, generating a fast-paced, exciting, creative – if tonally confused – bit of entertainment, with a remarkably satisfying conclusion. “This can’t be real!”

– Mike Massie