Ryan Coogler’s Sinners is not your typical horror film. It’s a blood-soaked blues opera set in the deep South that blends vampires, juke joints, and cultural reckoning into one of the most ambitious films of the year.
For those who do not have a Letterboxd account, I’m here to let you know that Ryan Coogler’s Sinners is a must-see. While it’s already a box office hit and boasts an 87% score on Rotten Tomatoes, what lies beneath the surface is far richer. Set in 1932 Mississippi, the film blends horror and historical realism to tell the story of Smoke and Stack, twin brothers and former gangsters, return to their Southern hometown to open a juke joint. They recruit their young cousin Sammie, a preacher’s son and musical prodigy, to perform. What begins as a night of music and celebration quickly spirals into horror when a vampire named Remmick arrives, seeking to steal Sammie’s supernatural talent for his own gain. The juke joint that the twin’s open become a crucible as it serves as both a host of pleasure and danger, music and menace.
The supernatural horror of Sinners emerges not from the grotesque but the symbolic. The vampires—led by Jack O’Connell’s sinister Remmick—represent white cultural appropriators who consume not just Black bodies but Black creativity. Remmick wants Sammie’s music—not just the sound, but the spirit behind it. It’s a chilling metaphor for how Black culture is often consumed without honoring the pain and history it carries. When Delroy Lindo’s Delta Slim tells Sammie, “White folks like the blues, just not the people who make it,” Coogler encapsulates the central tension of the film: the commodification of Black art by those who have historically devalued Black lives.
Jordan’s portrayal of twins Elijah “Smoke” and Elias “Stack” is framed through spiritual symbolism. Smoke, always dressed in blue, is contemplative and grounded; Stack, in red, is impulsive and hedonistic. These colour choices echo biblical and cultural archetypes such as Cain and Abel or even the dual paths of the soul redemption and ruin. Smoke’s killing of a literal snake further invokes biblical imagery suggesting his refusal to succumb to temptation. Meanwhile, Stack’s seduction by Mary—a mixed-race woman passing as white evokes a comparison to Eve or to the “forbidden” in a time constrained by racism.
The final scene, in which Sammie appears without a reflection—just like Stack—invites a chilling question: did Sammie lose his soul by surviving? Or is his “reflectionless” state a commentary on the cost of bearing witness to generational horror? Coogler offers no easy answers, leaving audiences to wrestle with the implications of Sammie’s haunted legacy. Every frame pulses with purpose, from the symbolic split between Smoke and Stack to the chilling question of what Sammie becomes. More than a stylish vampire tale, Sinners is a searing examination of who gets to own culture, who gets to survive history, and what is lost in the process. It is a film that bites deep—and refuses to let go.
By Kaylin Kotzee
