Acts of Intention

On Ryan Coogler’s ‘Sinners’ and the Urgency of Investing in Black Art

“Sinners” star, Michael B. Jordan, and Director, Ryan Coogler

When the credits began to roll two weeks ago at the world premiere of Sinners, the theater did not slip quietly into darkness as theaters often do; instead, it erupted into applause, spontaneous and fervent, swelling swiftly into standing ovations that seemed to carry with them years of pent-up recognition. I had been to premieres before—enough to understand that such moments usually held a kind of polite formality—but this was something entirely different. Here, as the lights rose, faces around me shone with more than appreciation: they radiated gratitude, defiance, a sense of collective vindication.

Ryan Coogler’s Sinners is not merely a film; it is an excavation of the stolen histories and muted voices that lie beneath America’s carefully curated cultural façade. Set in 1932 Mississippi, the story follows twin brothers Smoke and Stack (both portrayed by Michael B. Jordan), war-weary veterans who return home to create something enduring—a juke joint pulsating with freedom, art, and Black joy. Their dream, inevitably, becomes contested ground when confronted by a sinister force. With nuanced brilliance, the film frames vampirism as the ultimate metaphor for cultural appropriation—the relentless extraction and commodification of Black creativity by an oppressive white power structure.

In that electric moment after the screening, as applause surged into waves and cheers broke through customary decorum, it became clear that Sinners had touched something deep, something vital.

When the film was over, we headed to the after party, where I could tell that I was not the only one with my mind drifting to one question: It’s phenomenal—but will it be successful?

When art is good, genuinely good, the question inevitably shifts—from its artistic merit to its fate in the world. This question, of course, is not one of artistry but one of commerce, not of creation but of consumption; it is the quiet anxiety that lingers beneath all artistic endeavors, particularly those made by Black creators who understand, all too intimately, the fraught calculus of cultural worth in a nation that has historically preferred its Black art—and indeed its Black artists—relegated to the modest peripheries of economic success.

The question of the film’s potential success sat with me in the days after the premiere, stubbornly quiet, insistent. I considered the faces of those who had stood beside me, clapping fervently for this wonderful piece of art, as though something long suppressed had suddenly been given permission to breathe. The critics had also begun affirming the film’s vision, praising the narrative’s blend of horror and history, applauding its sharp illumination of Black pain and Black brilliance alike. Yet acclaim—sincere and substantial though it may be—often stands at an uneasy distance from success for Black art. Applause alone does not pay production costs. Only 2% of Hollywood’s major-budget projects in 2024 centered Black storytelling.

Michael B. Jordan playing the roles of Smoke and Stack.

This anxiety about the gap between acclaim and commercial triumph is nothing new. It is as embedded in America’s fabric as cotton, as persistent as the Mississippi mud through which Smoke and Stack carved their dreams. American history teaches us plainly that Black creativity has long been applauded—but rarely fairly compensated.

Consider the Harlem Renaissance, an era synonymous with Zora Neale Hurston’s literary genius and cultural influence. Hurston’s work, though celebrated today, was consistently undervalued financially in her lifetime. Publishers and gatekeepers eagerly distributed and profited from her stories, but Hurston herself died nearly forgotten, buried in an unmarked grave—a stark illustration of America’s habit of praising Black artistry without adequately compensating or sustaining its creators.

It is true, of course, that appreciation is a nuanced matter. But the bitter truth of American culture is that while it has always coveted Black art, it has frequently failed the Black artist—especially as it pertains to financial investment. The exploitation faced by artists like Hurston did not end with their era; it persists quietly in contemporary boardrooms and digital platforms today. This quiet persistence underscores that while forms may have changed, the fundamental economics of inequity remain largely intact.

Platforms such as Substack underscore this inequity, with Black writers consistently receiving fewer paid subscribers than their white counterparts, despite comparable—or greater—audiences.

This history echoes in the current artistic landscape with a troubling clarity. For example, in Hollywood today, investment in Black films remains disproportionately scant, as executives often hedge bets against “risk,” a term too frequently synonymous with Black storytelling. In 2023, Black-led films received, on average, budgets approximately 35% smaller than white-led films of comparable genres.

Even as some studios still market their diversity and inclusion, the material realities—the budgets allocated, the promotional efforts exerted, the institutional enthusiasm or hesitance—reveal another story. Ryan Coogler’s own path to prominence, exceptional as it is, exemplifies a broader truth: his is still the rare story, the exception that underscores the persistent inequities in artistic investment and visibility.

When we talk about anti-Blackness and white supremacy in America, we talk not only of historical brutality but also of systemic economic disenfranchisement—the subtler violence enacted through underfunding, the quiet erasure conducted in boardrooms and behind closed doors. The applause at the premiere of Sinners, loud and defiant, carried with it generations of voices demanding not just recognition but fair recompense. It was a moment of celebration, yes—but also a collective insistence upon investment, upon equity, upon a recognition long overdue.

Scene from the film “Sinners.”

The question then becomes one of strategy, a call for clarity: What must we do to ensure the success of Sinners—or any meaningful Black art—in a nation whose default setting remains an insistent, pervasive whiteness? To me, the answer lies fundamentally and unequivocally in intention.

It is tempting, I realize, to believe that good art will inherently find its rightful place, that talent will naturally rise, unaided, to its deserved prominence. But history and data tell a different story. We can’t simply ignore the very structures within which art is created, valued, and disseminated—structures built and sustained by whiteness itself. To intentionally invest in Black art, therefore, becomes a radical, necessary act, a conscious disruption of that default. It requires the deliberate seeking out of art by Black creators, not merely passively consuming it, but actively championing it. In a society driven by capitalism, it necessitates economic commitment—the concrete, tangible act of financial backing.

Intentional investment is more profound than mere representation. Representation alone—vital though it is—can too easily become symbolic, a neatly-packaged narrative of progress without substance or consequence. But intentional investment in Black art carries implications far beyond the visibility it may temporarily afford. It touches upon the deeper realms of cultural memory and preservation; it asserts economic justice through equitable compensation of Black creators; and, perhaps most urgently, it challenges and reshapes the default cultural narrative that whiteness has historically written, shaped, and sustained.

Black art is a testament, an archive, a repository of memory that refuses to be erased by the violent tide of history. Ryan Coogler’s Sinners is exemplary in this sense; its brilliance rests not merely in its storytelling but in its archival ambition, capturing the voices, struggles, and joys of those whose histories have been systematically neglected or distorted. Like Zora Neale Hurston’s portraits of Eatonville or Langston Hughes’s Harlem visions, Sinners offers future generations an enduring touchstone of authenticity, a resistant narrative that defies America’s tendency toward cultural amnesia. But such preservation is tenuous without financial commitment. Archival brilliance alone cannot sustain itself against the economics of erasure.

As an author, I know intimately the quiet anxiety of artistic creation—the weight of hoping one’s work will find fertile ground. My own novel, This Thing of Ours, shares a kindred spirit with Sinners, not only in its themes of race, identity, and cultural survival, but also in the knowledge that its success is dependent not only on its quality but on the willingness of others to actively seek it out, invest in it, advocate for it. In that way, my book, like Coogler’s film, is not fully mine to control. Its resonance in the world depends on the choices of others to recognize, value, and champion Black stories.

Intentionality, then, is not merely necessary—it is urgent.

To invest deliberately in Black art is to perform an act of justice, to actively build a future in which creativity thrives not despite systemic inequity, but in defiance of it. It is to insist on fairness, to preserve history, and to rewrite narratives that have too long excluded voices like those brought vividly to life in Sinners. Which is why the intentional act of investment becomes more than a strategy for success—it becomes an act of moral reckoning, of cultural accountability, and perhaps above all, an affirmation of the inherent worth of Black art in America’s uneasy, contested story.

I believe art can be both prayer and prophecy—and Sinners is that. It is a film you should see—not simply because it deserves eyes, though it does, but because we, too, deserve to witness artistry made unafraid of truth. Supporting Sinners, purchasing tickets, and actively recommending it ensures its survival. Seek out, purchase, and share Black-created art—not only to enjoy it but to financially empower creators whose voices have historically been silenced.

Left to Right: Damarcus Adisa, myself, and Robert Jones, Jr.

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