Movie review: Sinners

Occasionally, a film comes along that feels both familiar and completely unpredictable. Sinners, directed by Ryan Coogler, is one of those rare experiences — an audacious blend of southern gothic atmosphere, horror spectacle, and layered social commentary.

Set in 1932 Mississippi, the film follows twin brothers Smoke and Stack (both portrayed with striking nuance by Michael B. Jordan) who return home to open a juke joint — only to find themselves facing an unimaginable threat. 

Vampires, drawn by the supernatural music of their cousin Sammie (Miles Caton), descend upon their community, turning a dream of freedom into a battle for survival. 

It is a story that feels mythic and deeply personal all at once, rooted in history yet untethered from traditional genre expectations.

From the first frame, Coogler establishes a vivid, lived-in world. The film’s visual palette — saturated with dusty oranges, deep blues, and blood reds — immerses the viewer in a landscape that is as seductive as it is dangerous. 

I found myself completely drawn into the setting, the humidity and tension almost palpable. It reminded me of reading southern gothic novels late into the night, unable to shake the feeling of something ominous lurking just beyond the next page.

Jordan’s dual performance is one of the film’s great achievements. Smoke and Stack are distinct, complex characters, and Jordan imbues each with a depth that makes their fraternal bond — and their inevitable divergence — all the more tragic. 

Jack O’Connell, as the charismatic and menacing vampire leader Remmick, is equally compelling. He embodies a villain who is both a literal and symbolic predator, feeding off a community already strained by injustice and hardship.

The film’s horror elements are visceral without feeling gratuitous. Coogler directs action sequences with precision, balancing the terror of physical violence with the psychological horror of watching a dream turn to ash.

At the same time, Sinners never loses sight of its emotional core. The quieter moments — conversations shared over drinks, a song played in defiance — carry as much weight as the bloodiest confrontations.

Music is integral to the film’s success. Ludwig Göransson’s score and the original blues tracks performed by Caton serve not only as atmospheric enhancements but as essential storytelling tools. The music binds characters together, calls forth ancient forces, and ultimately becomes a weapon of resistance. 

After leaving the theatre, I found myself replaying certain songs in my mind, much like I used to after watching classic musical dramas for the first time.

What elevates Sinners beyond its genre trappings is its symbolism. The vampires are a clear metaphor for exploitation and systemic oppression, but Coogler wisely resists the urge to over explain. Instead, he trusts the audience to engage with the material on multiple levels.

Personally, I appreciated how the film invites conversation rather than dictating conclusions. It’s the kind of story that stays with you, shifting slightly the more you sit with it.

If Sinners falters anywhere, it is in its pacing. The middle act lingers a touch longer than necessary, and a few subplots are left underdeveloped. However, these are minor issues in a film that otherwise feels both ambitious and deeply human.

Walking out of the theatre, I realized I hadn’t just watched a horror film — I had witnessed a bold piece of storytelling that respects its audience’s intelligence and emotions. Sinners may revel in blood and darkness, but at its heart, it is a story about resilience, art, and the price of freedom.

It is a film I will be thinking about — and revisiting — for a long time to come.