The Art We Make in Dark Times: 'Sinners' and the New Harlem Renaissance

scene from the film "Sinners"

Part 3/3

From Mourning to Revolt: Building Our Renaissance Right Now

Blue Telusma walked into Issa's restaurant in Somerville, Los Angeles on opening night of Sinners and saw Ryan Coogler sitting ten feet away.

Forty-five minutes earlier, she'd walked out of the theater feeling something she didn't expect. Not just inspired — called. She'd said to herself: "God, if I ever get a chance to even breathe the same air as Ryan Coogler, I will take it as a sign that I need to commit to working on my book and all these screenplays that I've started."

And then there he was.

"Literally 45 minutes later," Blue said, "God said, 'Bet. There he goes. Now what?' So I have no more excuses."

That's what great art does. It doesn't just entertain you or move you or make you think. It calls you to your own purpose. It looks you dead in the face and says: What are you building? What are you waiting for? What's your excuse now?

We've covered a lot of ground in this series. In Part 1, we excavated the inheritance: the blues, the church-to-juke joint pipeline, the ancestral magic they taught us to fear. In Part 2, we named the crisis: the ongoing extraction, the vampires in different faces, the system designed to drain us whether literal monsters showed up or not.

Now we talk about what we build in response.

Because here's what I know about us: we've always made our best art in the worst times.

The 1920s/2020s Parallel

The Harlem Renaissance happened in the 1920s: an era of political unrest, racial terror, and economic precarity. The Red Summer of 1919 saw white mobs massacre Black communities across the country. The Tulsa Race Massacre destroyed Black Wall Street in 1921. The Klan was resurgent and politically powerful. Lynchings continued with impunity.

And out of that darkness came Langston Hughes, Zora Neale Hurston, Duke Ellington, Josephine Baker, Billie Holiday. We created a cultural explosion that redefined American art and laid the foundation for every artistic movement that followed.

Blue said it plainly: "For anybody who's like, 'Oh my god, the 2020s are so hard'—the 1920s were hard, guys. And guess what happened in the 1920s? We had the Harlem Renaissance. Renaissance is not just a Beyoncé album."

She continued: "Times of unrest, political unrest are always when we get the best social commentary, the best art, and the best revolutionaries. So rather than seeing this as a moment to mourn, see it as a moment to revolt and to build."

That's what Ryan Coogler is doing with Sinners. He's not making art in spite of the crisis. He's making art because of it. In response to it. As a weapon against it.

Making Original Work After Years of Extraction

Think about Ryan's trajectory. Fruitvale Station — based on Oscar Grant's murder. Creed —working within the Rocky franchise. Black Panther and Wakanda Forever — massive Marvel films where he's operating inside someone else's universe, someone else's IP, with studio oversight and franchise obligations.

Four years on Wakanda Forever. Four years dealing with pandemic shutdowns, Chadwick's death, production injuries. Four years being extracted from. Because that's what the Marvel machine does: it takes brilliant creators and extracts every ounce they have to give until they're empty.

And when it was finally done, Ryan could have taken the safe route. Another franchise. Another adaptation. Another piece of IP that a studio wanted to turn into a billion-dollar property.

Instead, he made Sinners. An original story. A vampire film about sharecroppers and blues musicians. A story that pulls from his own grief, his own research, his own need to honor his Uncle James and process everything he'd been feeling about extraction and loss and the system that keeps taking our artists.

"This wasn't based on anything direct," Ryan said. "So I pulled from myself. I see a lot of myself in it."

That's what revolution looks like. Making the art you need to make, not the art the industry wants to extract from you. Saying no to the safe money. Saying no to the franchise. Saying yes to the thing that scares you because it's yours.

Ryan Coogler Is the Spike Lee of This Generation

Blue said something that a lot of us have been thinking but maybe hadn't articulated: "Ryan Coogler might just be the Spike Lee of this generation. I have never said that before. You guys know I am a movie buff. I am obsessed with film and cinema and television. And so I'm really remiss to make any comparisons of one person to the other. But honestly, when I watch Ryan Coogler and his evolution as a filmmaker, it feels the way that I felt as a kid watching Spike Lee."

That comparison isn't casual. Spike Lee fundamentally changed what Black cinema could be. He made films that were unapologetically Black, politically sharp, formally innovative, and commercially successful. He proved you could make art that spoke directly to Black audiences while also reaching everyone else. He showed that you didn't have to soften your politics or your Blackness to be great. He created a template.

And Ryan is doing that now. Fruitvale Station announced him as a voice that mattered. Creed proved he could work within existing structures while maintaining his vision. Black Panther showed he could operate at the highest level of the industry without compromising. And Sinners—this is him saying: I can do all of that and still make something entirely my own. Something risky. Something that doesn't fit neatly into a box. Something that demands you meet it on its own terms.

That's the lineage. That's the torch being passed. That's the renaissance continuing.

The Burning Question: What Is the Price of Freedom?

Ryan said that every film he makes starts with a question.

For Sinners, that question was: "What is the price of freedom?"

The film answers it in layers.

The price of freedom is community: you can't be free alone.

The price of freedom is vigilance: you have to stay alert to who's at your door.

The price of freedom is gatekeeping: you have to protect what's sacred.

The price of freedom is being willing to say no to the money when the money comes with chains attached.

But there's another answer too, one that Blue pulled out and wouldn't let go of: "Find something you're willing to die for and then live for it."

There's a character in Sinners who has to choose between life and integrity. Between survival and selling out. Between breathing and being whole.

And they choose integrity. They make the choice that means they might die, but they'll die having not compromised. They'll die on their own terms.

Blue got emotional talking about this. "I need you to understand guys, the reason that I speak with such conviction is anything that I'm willing to live for, I'm also willing to die for."

And then: "You have to be living for something that you're willing to die for. For those of you who are walking around feeling restless and like, 'Oh my god, the world sucks. I don't know what I'm here to do'— it's because you haven't found something that you're willing to die for."

That's what Sinners is modeling. Not the dying part; the living with conviction part. The refusing to compromise part. The being so clear about what you stand for that even death can't make you betray it.

Never Let Fear Rob You of Your Purpose

There's a character named Sammy in the film, a young blues prodigy. Throughout the story, he's told he has to choose between God and his music. His father, played by Saul Williams, keeps telling him that his music is too powerful, it can't be of God, he needs to let it go.

"It was so hurtful watching that," Blue said, "because you could tell that music was his purpose. Music was his reason for being. Music was what God brought him here for."

There's a moment in the film where Sammy is given every reason to fall back into fear. Every reason to say, "You know what? Maybe they're right. Maybe I should give up this music thing. Maybe I should play it safe."

Blue was sitting in the theater thinking: "If he gives up music because of what happened to him in this film, it will break my heart."

The lesson is clear: Do not let fear rob you of your purpose.

Blue connected this to her own life. For the last three years, she's been completely self-employed as an emotional intelligence coach and writer. No safety net. No steady paycheck. Just her purpose and her belief that she's supposed to be doing this work.

"I was like, 'Damn, should I get a job? Should I stop living in my purpose full-time and get a job?'" she said. "And we discussed it and within 90 seconds, we were like, 'Yeah, I might have to die on this hill, guys. I might have to be the girl who follows her dream until the day she dies.'"

That fear: the fear that you should abandon your purpose for security is a trap. It's another form of extraction. They want you too afraid to create. Too afraid to build. Too afraid to claim your space and do the work only you can do.

Sinners reminds us that playing it safe is how you die spiritually, even if you're still breathing.

The Anointed and Their Work

Blue introduced a framework that I think is essential for understanding how the renaissance happens: the concept of the anointed.

"I am clearly an anointed person," she said without apology. "I have been knowing my purpose since I was five years old. First reading at five. Knew I wanted to be a writer at 8. Got my first writing job at the Harvard School of Public Health at 23. I have lived in my purpose my entire existence. The only time I was not living in my purpose was the first four years of my life when I was a non-verbal autistic kid. But other than that, I've always had a purpose. That is an anointing."

And then she said: "People who are anointed recognize each other. And others who are not anointed also recognize us. Guess what happens though? We pay for it."

Being anointed — being someone with a clear, powerful purpose — makes you a target.

Because you're a threat to the status quo. You're a threat to the systems of extraction. You're doing work that can't be commodified or fully controlled. You're connected to something larger than the marketplace.

Blue told a story about being on a work call with Jeff. He spoke and she got shivers. She interrupted the professional conversation to say: "Brother, you know you're anointed, right?"

He laughed and said, "Yeah, you too."

And that immediately created a bond between them. Because they both recognized: you are here for a very powerful and specific reason and I see you.

"I always make it a point to call it out," Blue said. "I also make it a point to be protective of the anointed because here's the thing: when you fuck with someone who is anointed, you're not just fucking with them. You're fucking with every spirit guide on the other side that brought them here to do their work."

The renaissance happens when the anointed find each other. Support each other. Protect each other. Push each other to be greater.

Chadwick's Lesson: The Patience That Changes Everything

We need to talk about what Chadwick Boseman taught Ryan and Michael about how to move through this industry with integrity intact.

Chadwick was older than Ryan and Michael. He was a fully formed man, an old school professional from the South who'd come up through Howard and trained at Oxford. And during the making of Black Panther, he taught them something essential that had nothing to do with acting technique.

"What he gave me and Michael was patience," Ryan said. "He moved at an old school pace. He took his time. He was always early. He was that type of dude."

Chadwick was so committed to his craft that when Disney executives came to set in week two and he was speaking in a Wakandan accent full-time, they freaked out. Ryan had to tell them: "Don't be freaked out. He's working. That's how he moves. He don't turn it off till we wrap."

No shame. No embarrassment. No code-switching for the white executives. Just complete commitment to the work.

And when Ryan was preparing Michael for the twin roles in Sinners, he told him: "Hey, bro, what would Chad do? If he had this role, what would he do?"

Chadwick has "transitioned to become an ancestor," Ryan explained. "And hey bro what would the big homie do? Boom, lock in."

But there's another layer to the Chadwick story that shows the kind of patience and discretion that we've lost in the age of social media oversharing.

Chadwick was at Howard University, maybe the most brilliant actor who'd ever come through there. Phylicia Rashad wanted to send him to study in England, to Oxford, where they take acting seriously as a craft. But Chadwick was from Anderson, South Carolina. He didn't have that kind of money.

Phylicia went to Denzel Washington and said, "I want to take care of this kid."

Denzel said, "I want to take care of it for the kid, but I don't want them to know it's me."

So Denzel paid for Chadwick to go to Oxford. Paid for everything. And Chadwick went and excelled. Came back transformed. Became the Chadwick Boseman we know.

Years later, Phylicia told Chadwick: "It was Denzel that paid for that."

And Chadwick held that information. For years. He didn't do interviews saying "Denzel paid for my education." He didn't leverage it for publicity during his 42 press run or his Get On Up press run or even during the first Black Panther. He held it with patience, with discretion, with the understanding that there's a right time for things.

Fast forward to the Black Panther premiere in New York. Denzel was doing Broadway but said he could swing by. Chadwick immediately pulled Ryan aside: "I got to talk to him before they go in and watch."

Ryan, his wife Zinzi, Denzel, and Chadwick got in a room at the theater. And Chadwick whispered in Denzel's ear: "Bro, it was me." And thanked him.

"That's why D was crying when he watched the movie," Ryan said.

Think about that level of integrity. That level of patience.

Ryan said: "Do you know how many actors, bro, as soon as they would have got on, they would have went on a show and said, 'Yeah, man. Denzel paid for me to go to Oxford.' Do you know how many articles they would have got out of that? Nah. He told it to his death."

That's the lesson Chadwick left. That some things are sacred. That gratitude doesn't need to be performed for an audience. That patience is a form of power. That discretion is a form of strength.

And it connects directly to Sinners because the film is asking: What are you willing to protect? What are you willing to keep sacred? What won't you sell even when selling it would benefit you?

The Car Scene: When Vulnerability Becomes Gold

The cast and crew panel gave us a glimpse into how magic actually happens on set when everyone is committed to the same vision.

There's a scene in Sinners that everyone's talking about—the car scene where Delroy Lindo's character Delta tells a story about his friend being violated and murdered, and the pain is so overwhelming that he starts to hum. And that humming becomes the blues.

You're watching the birth of a song in real time.

They'd rehearsed it. They'd done it multiple times. But on one take, they ran out of space on the road where they were filming. Michael B. Jordan, who was driving, was supposed to turn around and do it again.

Instead, he veered off and kept going.

"Michael veered off and the scene kept going," Delroy said. "We kept going and I had another run at it and Ryan kept the cameras going and we just kept going. And that's what produced that moment at the end that I was feeling and I was allowed to feel it by the director and what I was feeling was embraced by my fellow actors and we were all in the moment together."

Ryan described watching it unfold from the production van: "We had done it a hundred times and you could tell that he got overwhelmed and started to self-soothe"— the humming, the creating music as a coping mechanism. "And then Miles is looking like, 'Yo, what the fuck is happening?' And then Mike realizes and he stays in character and he's like, 'Hey man, play that guitar. Don't just let this music go by.' So then Miles is trying to process hearing this horrific story and play the music."

Everyone in the van sat there in silence after they cut, looking at each other thinking: "Did y'all just see what I thought we saw? Like the man just invented a blues song?"

"It's a testament to the power of acting," Ryan said. "It's such an alchemy that when it's done the right way sometimes you're seeing the gold get spun from air."

Gold spun from air.

That's what art is. That's what we do. We take pain and transform it into something beautiful. We take grief and make it sing. We take everything they tried to destroy us with and we make it into the thing that saves us.

But here's what made that moment possible: Delroy talked about it during the panel. He said the term that kept coming up throughout the production was vulnerability.

"The vulnerability that Mike articulates when he talks about how afraid he was, the vulnerability I see in Ryan in terms of how he approaches the work and how Ryan's approach to the work impacts all of us who work with him."

Michael had talked about the fear he felt when Ryan first pitched him the twin roles. "I think as actors we have this impostor syndrome that exists. And I think a fear of success. A fear of being exposed in a way."

But Ryan created an environment where that vulnerability was welcomed. Where it became fuel. Where admitting you're scared or uncertain or overwhelmed didn't make you weak: it made you human. And that humanity is what we see on screen.

That's how you build a renaissance. Not by pretending to be invincible. By being vulnerable enough to create something true.

Death as Teacher, Life as Response

Blue's aunt — a second mother to her, the woman who brought her to this country — died in 2018. "My entire life did not start until the day she died. Her death is what reminded me to live."

Her mother is currently in a facility with kidney failure, getting dialysis three times a week. "Every single day I wake up that my mother is still alive is a day that I am grateful. I have never been more grateful for my mother than I am knowing that we are living in a space where her mortality is finite."

"Death is a reminder to live right now," Blue said.

Sinners is full of death. But the way the film treats death matters: "Death is not an end, it's another beginning. When you pass away, there's a whole region of people, a whole version of life waiting for you of people who have been calling out favors for you on the other side who want to meet you."

Ryan made this film because Uncle James died and Ryan needed to feel him again. Blue watched this film while grieving her aunt and bracing for her mother's death. I'm writing this thinking about everyone I've lost and everyone I'm afraid of losing.

And what Sinners does is remind us: the dead are not gone. They're ancestors now. They're guides. They're watching. And the best way to honor them is to live. To create. To build. To refuse to let fear win.

Film as Magical Mirror

Blue said something that captures what Sinners is and what it does better than I ever could:

"Film to me is the closest thing you can come to a magical mirror. Film has the opportunity to make us see ourselves in technicolor in ways that we forget to see ourselves every day."

She watched Sinners and saw herself. Saw her lineage. Saw her magic reflected back in a way that unlocked something.

"As a magical person who is usually under attack and who's gotten used to people not understanding that I just love my people so much that I want us to get free — this movie unlocked something inside of me. I felt so seen and so vindicated."

And then: "It's not just about vampires and Michael B. Jordan being fine as hell. It was a reminder of just how beautiful and amazing and powerful black people really are. And we've been so under attack since Trump became president. I didn't realize how much I needed that reminder. We all need that reminder right now."

That's why we make the art. That's why we tell the stories. Not for the vampires. Not for the industry. Not even for the box office, though that matters.

We make it for us. For the reminder that our magic is real, our power is intact, and no amount of extraction can kill what we keep creating.

Rather Than Mourn, Revolt and Build

We're living through something. The 2020s are hard in ways that feel designed to break us. The political climate is hostile. The attacks are constant. The systems of extraction are more sophisticated than ever. The vampires are real and they're everywhere and they're hungry.

But so are we.

And we've been here before. We've survived worse. And every single time, we've made art that not only survives but transforms the culture.

The Harlem Renaissance didn't happen in spite of the 1920s being brutal. It happened because they were brutal. The art was the response. The art was the revolt. The art was the building.

Sinners is part of that tradition. It's Ryan Coogler saying: I see what they're doing to us. I see the extraction. I see the violence. I see the way they try to drain us dry. And in response, I'm going to make something beautiful. Something true. Something that reminds us who we are and what we're capable of.

Blue's final words: "Rather than seeing this as a moment to mourn, see it as a moment to revolt and to build. That's what you can get from Sinners."

So Here Are My Questions for You

What are you building?

What's the thing you're willing to die for, so you better live for it?

What's the purpose that fear keeps trying to talk you out of?

What's the magic you've been taught to hide that actually might be the thing that saves you?

What's your Sinners?

What's the thing you need to create that's yours, that comes from your grief and your research and your need to honor the people who came before you?

Because the vampires are coming. They're already here. They've always been here. And we don't stop them by playing it safe or compromising or inviting them in because they seem familiar.

We stop them by doing what we've always done: creating. Building. Making the art that conjures the ancestors and calls the next generation forward.

We stop them by being anointed and doing the work we were put here to do.

We stop them by finding something worth dying for and then living for it with everything we have.

That's the legacy of Sinners. That's the legacy of the blues. That's the legacy we inherit and the legacy we pass on.

Blue walked out of that theater and forty-five minutes later sat ten feet away from Ryan Coogler. Divine confirmation. A sign that couldn't be ignored.

What's your sign? What's the thing you've been waiting for permission to do?

This is your permission. This is your sign. This is your moment.

Now go make your art.

The renaissance is waiting.

Until next time,

Tricky Sol

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Sources & Further Research

This final essay draws from all previous interview sources with emphasis on:

1. Blue Telusma Instagram Live "Free Game" session - The Ryan Coogler restaurant encounter, 1920s/2020s Harlem Renaissance parallel, "Ryan Coogler is the Spike Lee of this generation" observation, the seven lessons framework, emotional vulnerability and tears while discussing the film, death as teacher (aunt's death in 2018, mother's current dialysis), "revolt and build" framework, and film as "magical mirror."

2. Cast & Crew Panel Discussion (SAG screening) - Vulnerability as creative foundation (Delroy's observation), the car scene alchemy and "gold spun from air" moment, Michael on fear and impostor syndrome, Ryan's approach to creating safe creative environment, and the collaborative process.

3. Ryan Coogler interview with The Breakfast Club - Chadwick's teachings about patience and professionalism, the complete Denzel/Chadwick/Oxford story, making original work after years of franchise filmmaking, "what would Chad do?" mentorship framework, and the burning question "What is the price of freedom?"

4. Ryan Coogler interviews (journalist & Breakfast Club) - Discussion of pulling from himself for original work rather than adaptation, the relationship between personal grief (Uncle James) and artistic creation, and Chadwick as ancestor.