Ryan Coogler’s Sinners exposes the past with purpose, forcing it into the spotlight where it refuses to stay quiet. It doesn’t just summon the ghosts of the Black South, it gives them guitars. It makes them sing, scream, and testify. Then it dares the audience to listen to what was stolen, silenced, and still refuses to stay buried.
Through hypnotic blues riffs, sharp genre shifts, and cinematography that sways between the sacred and the grotesque, Sinners resists definition. It’s horror. It’s history. It’s folklore. But most of all, it’s music.
Set in 1932 Mississippi, the film follows twin brothers Smoke and Stack, played by Michael B. Jordan, who return home after the Great Migration to open a juke joint. Their vision of a sanctuary for Black music and memory shatters when a white vampire band, led by the seductive Remmick (Hailee Steinfeld), arrives to drain the soul from their sound.
Every frame breathes atmosphere. Candlelight flickers on tarnished brass. Sweat beads on brown skin. Cinematographer Autumn Durald Arkapaw renders the juke joint as hallowed ground, cloaked in shadow and gold. Coogler and Arkapaw use shadow and gold to evoke the quiet majesty of a church, the heat of the Delta, and the urgency of memory. The vampires creep in like thieves dressed as prophets.
But it’s the sound that carries the film. Ludwig Göransson’s score blends field recordings, spirituals, and blues into something raw and alive. The music doesn’t underscore the story, it drives it.
At the heart of this sonic storm is Sammie (Miles Caton), a young guitarist whose playing becomes a force of nature. His performances are less concerts than rituals. His guitar is more than an instrument—it’s a shield. In one chilling scene, Sammie plays a solo under a flickering lantern while the vampires attempt to copy his sound. They play louder, cleaner, more polished—but the music is empty. He is haunted. His bones bend and break like bones. That contrast is the film’s soul: you can mimic Black music, but without the pain and history behind it, all you have is noise.
Sinners exposes the grotesque legacy of cultural theft. The vampires aren’t just monsters. They’re metaphors for an industry that’s devoured Black sound and erased its creators. The film doesn’t whisper its critique—it bleeds it.
And yet, it’s not just about loss. It’s about refusal. Every stomp, every riff, every shout becomes an act of resistance. The horror isn’t in blood, it’s in recognition: in watching your story echoed back without your name. But in Sinners, sound fights back.
It’s not fast. It lingers. It burns slowly. But every moment is earned. If you’re ready to hear what history tried to bury, Sinners is playing now.