Sinners (2025) – A Spiritual, Sonic, Soul-Shaking Masterpiece

There are films that claim to echo with heart, with history, with heritage—and then there is "Sinners," Ryan Coogler’s audacious, transcendent blend of Gothic folklore, musical soulcraft, and cultural reclamation. It doesn’t just echo. It sings. It howls. It bleeds. From its first frame to its devastating final image, Sinners is a full-bodied spiritual experience masquerading as horror—a rare, roaring anomaly that doesn’t fit inside a genre but redefines what cinema can be when it chooses truth over trope.

At the centre of this cinematic exorcism is music—not as adornment, but as DNA. The film’s heartbeat is the blues. And it is through that heartbeat that Coogler tells a tale steeped in generational trauma, Black identity, post-war brotherhood, the spectral weight of history, and the enduring fight for Black ownership in the face of cultural erasure. But unlike anything we've seen before, Sinners fuses those themes with a chilling yet poetic vampire mythos that feels entirely earned, never performative. It is horror, yes—but elevated horror. Arthouse. Operatic. Biblical.

The Blues as Bloodline

Set in the Mississippi Delta during the 1930s, Sinners follows twin brothers Smoke and Stack—both played, exquisitely and with startling distinction, by Michael B. Jordan—who return home to open a juke joint. This place, more than a bar, becomes a church of sorts: a sanctuary of soul, a communal hearthstone where Black folk gather to drink, dance, and reclaim their joy. The walls of the juke joint hum with possibility. With danger. With prophecy. Even if only for one night.

And then there’s the moment. The moment that marks "Sinners" not just as a great film, but a holy text of black magic. Sammie, the film’s humble preacher-boy turned guitar savant, takes to the stage. He plays the blues—slow, aching, ancestral. As he sings, the camera glides across the dance floor in a long, liquid motion, capturing the swelling ecstasy of Black joy. And then the music begins to evolve. It morphs, imperceptibly at first, weaving through the history of Black music—African tribal chants, gospel, jazz, funk, soul, R&B, hip-hop—all spiralling into the foundation laid by the blues. It's not a medley; it’s a resurrection. An invocation. This is music as invocation. And in that moment, it summons something darker.

Outside the joint, stands the vampire Remmick, captivated by the sounds, eyes glowing like embers, face lit with a deranged smile. He listens intently, staring into the soul of their cultural history as the place is set spiritually ablaze. Sammie's music called to something ancient. Something seductive. Something that knows the blues because it was born of the same sorrow.

A Clash of Cultures—Scored to Perfection

What Coogler and composer Ludwig Göransson achieve with the film’s score is revolutionary. The music is not just thematic; it is political. It is narrative. When the scenes pulse with Black culture, the music leans blues, jazz, rhythm. But when Remmick and his fellowship—white vampires born of pain and craving—invade, the score rips into metal, into noise. The clash is jarring. Purposeful. It feels like an act of war. The blues is not just an aesthetic—it’s a battlefield. And the music becomes the weapon, the shield, and the lament.

The result is a full-body experience. As Remmick’s power grows, the music becomes louder, more aggressive, less familiar. It’s a stunning metaphor: Black culture, as it always has, being appropriated, corrupted, and consumed until it’s unrecognisable to those who birthed it. And yet, it fights back. Every scene feels like a spiritual wrestling match, waged through melody and rhythm.

Remmick: The Devil At The Door

Jack O’Connell gives a performance so disturbingly charismatic you almost want to follow him into the dark and join his fellowship. Remmick isn’t just a villain—he’s a prophet of perversion.

A being who believes, earnestly, that he is liberating the people he turns. He doesn’t kill for sport; he offers salvation through eternal night. He doesn’t deny his love for Black culture—he craves it. He worships it. He believes the blues is a divine language, one that called him into existence. His monologues are lyrical and damning, his gaze never cruel, always convincing. You don’t root for him. But you understand why someone would.

One scene in particular—outside the joint, where he sings “Picked Poor Robin Clean” in the dark with his newly-turned—should be studied. It is eerily beautiful, the harmony between vampire and victim pitch-perfect, terrifying. When he and his hive recite the Lord’s Prayer in unison with Sammie, the lines between the sacred and the profane dissolve entirely. It’s religious horror at its most potent—unflinching, unforgettable.

Brothers in Arms, Brothers in Grief

Jordan’s dual performance as Smoke and Stack is nothing short of masterful. Stack is lighter, a dreamer. Smoke is war-weathered, clenched, sceptical. But together, they form a complete man—until tragedy forces one to stand alone. There’s a small scene near the end that shattered me more than any of the horror sequences. Smoke, shaking, tries to roll a cigarette for himself, something Stack always did for him. He fails. His hands tremble. A moment so small, yet so laden with grief, PTSD, and love that it lingers long after the credits roll. Coogler knows the power of silence. Of memory. Of unspoken bonds. And I appreciate the care that went into making sure a detail so seemingly small, was given a fitting final detail, that reassured me of the passion that went into every single god damn scene.

The Voice That Summoned the Storm

Miles Caton’s debut as Sammie Moore doesn’t just mark the arrival of a new talent—it announces a generational voice. At just 20, Caton steps into the role of the preacher’s son with a presence that feels both timeless and urgent. His musical roots run deep—raised in a gospel-rich family, he’s been singing since the age of three, and his voice carries that lineage with soulful weight.

Caton not only sings in Sinners but co-wrote the haunting original track “Last Time (I Seen the Sun)” with Alice Smith and composer Ludwig Göransson. Learning blues guitar in just two months for the role, his performance in the juke joint sequence is a revelation—channeling pain, power, and prophecy in equal measure. It’s no wonder director Ryan Coogler described him as “a once-in-a-lifetime voice.” Caton’s portrayal of Sammie is the film’s heartbeat—a blend of innocence and depth that lingers long after the credits roll.

Framing the Fire

Autumn Durald Arkapaw’s cinematography in Sinners is nothing short of masterful. Making history as the first female cinematographer to shoot on large-format IMAX film, she crafts a visual narrative that is both expansive and intimate. Utilizing a blend of IMAX and Ultra Panavision 70 formats, the film’s shifting aspect ratios serve the story’s emotional beats—widening to capture the vastness of the Mississippi Delta, then narrowing to draw us into the characters’ inner worlds.

Night scenes glow with a haunting luminescence, firelight dances with purpose, and each frame feels meticulously composed yet organically alive. Arkapaw’s lens doesn’t just show us the world of Sinners—it immerses us in its soul, making the supernatural elements feel grounded and the historical context visceral. Her work elevates the film, turning each scene into a painting that breathes.

Anchors in the Storm

Delroy Lindo's performance is like jazz—unpredictable, soulful, and necessary. He doesn't undercut the film's tension, but rather gives it breath. In a narrative that leans heavy on atmosphere and myth, he injects a kind of familial levity that feels earned and lived-in. His presence is grounding, a reminder of what’s at stake when the horror threatens to strip the story of its humanity. And then there’s Hailee Steinfeld, as Mary, bringing a layered grace to the screen—mischievous, magnetic, and caught between identities. Raised with Smoke and Stack, her loyalty runs deep, but her character exists in a space that blurs lines—between belonging and otherness, tradition and disruption. There's a quiet poetry to how her arc unfolds, and you’re left wondering whether she’s a reflection of what it means to straddle cultures, or a symbol of something even more elusive. Either way, she leaves a mark—fierce and unforgettable. And then there's Wunmi Mosaku’s portrayal of Annie, which anchors the film with a quiet yet potent strength. She is a bridge to ancestral wisdom, embodying the resilience and spiritual power of the Black community. Her presence is not loud, but her influence is undeniable—rooted in healing and protection, offering a steady counterpoint to the chaos around her. Annie doesn’t just fight evil with wisdom—she fights to preserve the very soul of her people.