Sinners – Film Review
Published April 19, 2025

Just when I thought that I had surely seen it all with vampires in cinema, in comes legendary filmmaker Ryan Coogler to prove me wrong. In Sinners, Coogler fuses period drama, supernatural horror, and poignant social commentary into a hauntingly lyrical experience that lingers long after the credits roll. Set in the steamy heart of the Mississippi Delta in 1932, this bold, genre-blending film is a testament to Coogler’s vision and confidence as a storyteller, and a showcase for a trio of unforgettable performances—Michael B. Jordan in a commanding dual role, Hailee Steinfeld at her most compelling, and newcomer Miles Caton making an extraordinary debut.
Sinners is a tale of legacy—cultural, familial, and spiritual. Twin brothers Smoke and Stack Moore, both hardened by their service in World War I and their time navigating the unforgiving streets of Chicago, return home in search of redemption and belonging. The town they return to, however, has changed, or perhaps revealed its true face: one of deep-seated racial hatred, unhealed wounds, and something far darker lurking just beneath the soil.
What begins as a story of rebuilding—a sawmill converted into a juke joint serving as a beacon for Black joy and resilience—morphs into a harrowing descent into the supernatural. The horror is not just the arrival of vampires, but the realization that evil here takes many forms: segregation, violence, betrayal, and the seductive promise of power disguised as liberation. That Coogler is able to juggle all of these themes with such grace and tension speaks to his strengths not only as a director but as a storyteller deeply attuned to the rhythms of Black history and myth.
Michael B. Jordan’s turn as both Smoke and Stack is nothing short of astonishing. He distinguishes the twins with subtle physicality and sharply divergent emotional registers: Smoke is stoic and burdened, a man trying to suppress the fire that’s always burning within him; Stack is looser, more open, but carrying a different kind of regret. Jordan makes each brother feel wholly lived-in, allowing their inevitable clash to feel tragic rather than sensational. It’s the kind of dual performance that awards bodies tend to overlook but absolutely should not.
Hailee Steinfeld, meanwhile, delivers a career-best performance as Mary, a woman caught between worlds—racially, romantically, and spiritually. Her transformation throughout the film is masterful, and she manages to balance menace with aching humanity, refusing to let her character become a simple villain or victim. She, like Jordan, deserves serious awards consideration.
And then there’s Miles Caton, in his first screen role as Sammie “Preacher Boy” Moore. Caton carries the film’s emotional arc with astonishing grace, charting Sammie’s evolution from wide-eyed dreamer to battle-scarred survivor without ever losing the gentleness at the character’s core. In a film this heavy and complex, it’s remarkable how Caton anchors its soul with such ease. We can one-hundred-percent expect this to be the start of a major career.
The supporting cast is uniformly excellent. Wunmi Mosaku imbues Annie with spiritual gravitas and aching sorrow, while Delroy Lindo’s Delta Slim brings world-weariness and sly wit to every scene he graces. Jack O’Connell plays the Irish vampire Remmick with a chilling calm, giving the character a hypnotic allure without veering into caricature. Jayme Lawson and Omar Miller add richness and texture in smaller but meaningful roles, while Buddy Guy’s cameo feels like a passing of the torch from one bluesman to another.
Visually, Sinners is hypnotic and one of the best looking movies I’ve had the pleasure of seeing in a theatre in ages. The cinematography by Autumn Durald Arkapaw bathes the Delta in an oppressive golden heat by day and cold, haunted shadows by night. The camera lingers on sweat, smoke, and stained wood, evoking a world as tactile as it is mythic. The film’s use of music is especially potent—composed by Ludwig Göransson, the score blends gospel, early blues, and experimental strings to underscore the clash between the earthly and the eternal. In one unforgettable scene (mercifully not spoiled here), music becomes the literal battleground between good and evil, and Coogler stages it like an exorcism by way of a church revival.
Sinners also succeeds tremendously as a horror film. While its pacing leans toward the deliberate, it builds dread with precision. The horror isn’t reliant on jump scares but on atmosphere, loss, and the terror of seeing loved ones twisted into something otherworldly. The vampire lore is steeped in both folklore and fresh invention, particularly in how it intersects with race, class, and the legacy of American sin. There’s a wicked cleverness in how Coogler uses vampirism not just as a metaphor, but as a tool for interrogating power, seduction, and survival.
That said, Sinners isn’t without its imperfections. The film’s slow-burn structure—particularly in the first act—may frustrate viewers expecting quicker thrills. While this deliberate pacing ultimately serves the emotional payoff and tension, it occasionally tests patience. Some of the dialogue, too, leans into naturalism in a way that can make certain lines hard to catch, especially when characters speak in low tones or thick regional accents. Subtitles might prove helpful in repeat viewings.
But these are small quibbles in the context of a film so rich, so assured, and so unapologetically ambitious. Sinners is the kind of movie we don’t see often: a Black Southern Gothic horror that refuses to compromise either its artistry or its political edge. Coogler draws on the spiritual inheritance of Zora Neale Hurston, August Wilson, and Toni Morrison, blending it with a horror aesthetic that recalls Near Dark, Ganja & Hess, and Let the Right One In, yet it is wholly his own.
In its closing scenes—one achingly nostalgic, the other almost operatic in its sadness—Sinners transcends genre. It becomes an elegy for a generation, a requiem for lost dreams, and a hymn to the enduring power of music, memory, and love. This is one of the year’s finest films. It is a triumph not just of craft but of spirit.