Every once in a while, a film grabs you by the collar, drags you down into its world, and refuses to let go until you’ve felt every heartbeat, every gasp, and every gunshot echo in your chest. Ryan Coogler’s latest film, Sinners, is one of those experiences.
Walking into the theater, I had expectations. Coogler, after all, has never made a movie that wasn’t sharply crafted, culturally significant, or emotionally resonant. From Fruitvale Station to Creed and Black Panther, he’s navigated different genres with grace and purpose. But nothing—absolutely nothing—prepared me for the genre-bending fever dream that is Sinners.
Sinners
Set in the pre-war Deep South, this film is part noir, part supernatural horror, part gangster flick, and part cultural manifesto. That may sound like an unholy mashup, but in Coogler’s hands, it pulses with life. It’s chaotic. It’s haunting. And it’s beautiful.
At the heart of the story are the Smoke twins—Elijah and Elias—played by a smoldering, swaggering Michael B. Jordan. As someone who’s followed Jordan’s career for years, watching him embody two vastly different personas with such commitment was a pleasure. These aren’t just palette-swapped characters—they’re fully realized men with distinct motivations, fears, and backstories. Elijah is the practical one, hardened by Chicago’s underworld. Elias is unpredictable, poetic, and a bit haunted. Jordan nails both.
Their cousin, Sammie, played by real-life R&B prodigy Miles Caton, adds a layer of aching innocence to the story. His blues guitar sings of pain, loss, and mystery, and it’s that gift that pulls everyone—living and dead—towards the juke joint the trio opens. Sammie is the soul of this story, and his music becomes the battleground for the supernatural forces lurking in the shadows.
I found myself holding my breath during the first hour of the film, which plays more like a historical crime drama than horror. There’s an eerie tension under the surface—whispers of devil deals, glances exchanged under gaslight—but for a while, everything feels real, grounded. That changes abruptly, and spectacularly, when night falls and the film morphs into a siege horror reminiscent of From Dusk Till Dawn.
Now, here’s where I have to be honest. I didn’t know how I felt about the supernatural twist at first. The grounded, gritty first half had me completely engrossed. I wanted to watch the Smoke twins face down real-world enemies, navigate betrayal, and possibly redemption. So when literal demons arrived, part of me resisted. But over time, I saw what Coogler was aiming for.
The monsters in Sinners aren’t just for jump scares. They’re allegorical, deeply tied to the film’s themes of appropriation, racial trauma, and cultural erasure. Vampires—white-skinned, gospel-humming, eerily polite—descend on the black-owned juke joint not just for blood, but to feed on the music, the culture, the very soul of the place. It’s powerful stuff. And when viewed through that lens, the gonzo horror makes sense.
Visually, the movie is nothing short of stunning. Autumn Durald Arkapaw’s cinematography is lush, shadowy, and oppressive in the best way. The juke joint, bathed in red light and cigarette smoke, feels like a place suspended in time—a haven, a trap, and a stage all at once. The sound design is immersive, with every guitar lick and shriek of terror echoing off the walls.
Hailee Steinfeld’s Mary, a scorned ex-lover with secrets of her own, adds another layer of drama to the ensemble. Her dynamic with the twins is charged and tense. Jack O’Connell’s Remmick is equal parts charismatic and chilling—a country singer with an Irish lilt and the smile of a butcher. Their arrival escalates everything.
But what truly elevates Sinners for me is its willingness to take risks. This is not a film that holds your hand. It doesn’t over-explain its mythology. It doesn’t pander. It expects you to keep up. And when you do, the reward is a visceral, unforgettable ride that sticks with you.
Coogler’s direction is more experimental here than anything he’s done before. There are moments of pure surrealism—mirrors that don’t reflect, songs that summon the dead, and scenes that spiral into full-blown nightmares. It’s daring filmmaking, and while it may not be for everyone, it absolutely worked for me. There’s even a surprise post-credit cameo that had the audience I was with erupting in gasps. I won’t spoil it, but let’s just say it ties this twisted tale back into Coogler’s wider cinematic universe in a way that’s both unexpected and intriguing.
If I have one criticism, it’s that Sinners tries to juggle so many ideas and genres that it occasionally drops a few. Some character arcs feel rushed. The film’s pacing dips slightly in the third act. And the tonal shift between gritty crime drama and supernatural horror might be too jarring for some viewers.
But those flaws pale in comparison to what the movie accomplishes. This is bold, imaginative filmmaking with something to say. It reclaims horror tropes and injects them with soul. It challenges the viewer. It bleeds authenticity.
By the end, I walked out of the theater shaken, thrilled, and deeply moved. Sinners isn’t just a movie—it’s an exorcism, a jam session, a reckoning.
Ryan Coogler’s Sinners is one of the most daring horror films in years. See it on the biggest screen you can, and let yourself get lost in the music, the madness, and the myth.
