I remember it was a school night. Uneventful. Mundane. Ordinary. Until of course it wasn’t.
I walked into Sinners knowing absolutely nothing about it. No trailers, no cast announcements, not even a vague plot synopsis. 2025 hasn’t been a milestone year for Hollywood so far and my expectations were reasonably demure. In a time where every movie seems dissected by teasers, leaks, and spoiler-filled thumbnails long before it hits the screen, perhaps I was happy to embrace the tiny prick of rebellion that it was to go in blind. I didn’t know who directed it, who starred in it, or even what genre it belonged to. All I had was the title, ‘Sinners’. So, with little else than the quiet curiosity that the title aroused, we dove in.
Seldom does ignorance turn out to be such a gift.
“There are legends of people born with the gift of making music so true, it can pierce the veil between life and death, conjuring spirits from the past and the future."
The two hour plus long cinematic experience that unfolded was so wildly unexpected, so unapologetically bold, that I was hooked from the first scene to its very last – post credits and all!
Sinners is a story where the Mississippi Delta's revered soul meets fangs, fiddles, and the ghosts of the blues. And because I had no preconceived notions, every twist, every character, and every note of music (!?) hit with full force.
They’re not wrong when they say, that the best way to experience a story is to let it surprise you.
There’s a certain magic in the way Ryan Coogler makes a movie feel like both a personal memory and a cinematic epic. With Sinners, he takes that alchemy to bold new territory: a gonzo horror-thriller set in 1930s Mississippi, soaked in Delta blues, with a dash of Irish folk, and the bite of bloodthirsty vampires. On paper, I can imagine that it sounded like a madman’s fever dream. On the screen however, it translated into a hypnotic, genre-bending, musical phantasmagoria that redefined what horror — and musical storytelling — can be.
For those who might not be familiar, Coogler, known for Fruitvale Station, Creed, and Black Panther, ventures into the deep South for this ambitious tale, intertwining American racial history with folklore and the universal language of music.
To put it plainly, Sinners is a vampire movie while also being a heartfelt tribute to blues music. To wax on, Sinners is a meditation on cultural survival, appropriation, and the seductive power of art across time and bloodlines.
The Devil at the crossroads
At the heart of Sinners are twin brothers Smoke and Stack (the Smokestack twins), both played with remarkable distinction by the luminous Michael B. Jordan. Returning to their rural Mississippi hometown, the brothers venture to open a juke joint, a refuge for Black folks exhausted by the relentless grind of cotton fields and the ever-present threat of Ku Klux Klan violence. Their sanctuary is meant to be a celebration of Black joy and resilience, pulsing with the rhythms of the blues.
But once you open a door, you can’t be certain of what evil might come barging through.
Rather than hooded Klansmen, the true antagonists are a trio of vampires, led by Jack O’Connell’s enigmatic Remmick, accompanied by Joan (Lola Kirke) and Bert (Peter Dreimanis). They arrive with fiddles, bodhráns, and the lilting allure of Irish folk music. Bearing them as gifts in honor of the brothers’ new music joint. Gifts that might earn them a welcome. Their music is their weapon: hypnotic, foreign, yet eerily familiar.
Coogler cleverly riffs on the legend of Robert Johnson, the bluesman who supposedly sold his soul to the devil at a crossroads. But here, the deal is reframed: the vampire Remmick offers freedom from the brutalities of mortal life — eternal youth, power, escape from racism and oppression. His pitch is seductive, precisely because he presents himself as an outsider to America’s racial hierarchies, an ancient being who seemed to have witnessed Ireland’s own colonisation and sees Mississippi’s racial violence with a detached, almost anthropological eye.
As defenders of their community Smoke and Stack are drawn into this supernatural conflict, in a marginally pronounced role, as artists grappling with the existential question: Who owns the blues? Is it the people who lived it? Or can it be co-opted, adulterated, transmuted, and commodified by those who neither understand its pain nor respect its roots?
As the vampires’ influence grows, the juke joint descends into a battleground of culture, memory, and identity (read lots and lots of blood).
Blues, blood, and Bodhráns
Ryan Coogler’s deep reverence for music is evident in every frame. Teaming up once again with composer Ludwig Göransson, the duo crafts a soundscape that is more vital to the storytelling than any dialogue or action sequence.
The diegetic music, songs performed on screen by the characters profoundly grounds the film in its historical context. The juke joint scenes are electric, featuring authentic blues performances that feel lived-in: familiar and raw. One standout moment is when newcomer Miles Caton, playing the young singer Sammie, delivers a haunting rendition of the original song “I Lied to You.” Caton’s voice, aged beyond his years, crackles with sorrow and defiance, while the camera dances through the club, blurring the boundaries of time and space.
In an unforgettable set piece, the walls of the juke joint dissolve as Coogler blends 1930s plantation workers, ancient African drummers, modern DJs, and even twerking dancers into a transcendent musical tableau. It is a literal eruption of history through sound, culminating in the roof bursting into a plume of flames, a shot Coogler proudly confirms was done practically, not digitally. The scene in itself is a visual and sonic manifesto about the enduring, evolving soul of Black music, brought to life through the director’s bravura.
And then there’s the Irish music.
One could imagine the vampires’ arrival being heralded with ominous strings, spine chilling and ethereal — but what we get instead are sprightly reels tinged with melancholic airs. Coogler’s personal affection for Irish folk, shared by his family, informs this choice. The gimmick cashes in triumphantly; the use of Irish music deepens the film’s themes. The fiddles and jigs, while at face value, contrast starkly with the heavier, bass hefty blues, snap right into place — an immaculate union; both echoing similar emotional truths — requiems of sorrow, of exile, and of resilience.
Jack O’Connell’s Remmick isn’t your typical gothic villain either. His musicality is central to his allure. Trained intensively by Göransson, O’Connell plays a credible, if uncanny, folk musician. His companions, Joan and Bert, portrayed by real-life musicians Lola Kirke and Peter Dreimanis, add layers of authenticity to their combined performance. Together, their music becomes a siren song, luring the oppressed with promises of transcendence.
Göransson’s score threads these disparate musical traditions into a coherent sonic universe. He wields the 1932 Dobro resonator guitar like a time machine, layering it with slide guitar, harmonica, and, in moments of climax, Metallica-inspired power chords. Lars Ulrich himself contributes to the film’s heaviest sequences, reminding us of the blues’ evolutionary path into rock and metal.
The musical interplay between the Delta blues and Irish folk is beyond being merely aesthetic; it is instead, thematic – enhancing both arts to a level transcendent. Both genres emerged from oppressed peoples finding solace and power in subdued reverie and song. Yet in Sinners, this mirrored heritage instead becomes a battleground of authenticity versus appropriation, lived experience versus immortal detachment.
Horror, history, and the haunting of America
While Sinners is packed with thrilling set pieces and gothic horror tropes, Coogler’s ambitions stretch far beyond genre thrills. This is a film about America’s original sins that scar its tapestry to this day: slavery, racism, exploitation.
Remmick and his vampires are not stand-ins for the Klan or plantation owners. They are something far older, and more insidious: the eternal temptation of man to escape suffering at the cost of one’s soul. Their “offer” is alluring precisely because it feels like liberation from the grinding reality of Jim Crow-era Mississippi. But as the film unfolds, it becomes clear that true freedom cannot be bought or bitten into.
Delroy Lindo delivers a memorable turn as Delta Slim, an old bluesman who recognizes the vampires’ allure for what it ultimately is: a beautiful lie. His piano lessons with Göransson imbue his scenes with lived-in wisdom, his character serving as both a mentor and a cautionary figure.
Coogler also weaves in a modern coda. The post-credits scene, featuring blues legend Buddy Guy, ties the film’s century-old events to contemporary realities. Coogler’s emotional meeting with Guy, himself a former sharecropper, adds a poignant resonance. This scene is a living testament to the blues’ journey, survival, and relevance.
A bold, beautiful, bloody ballad
Sinners is by all means, a very audacious film. The first half of the film is diametrically opposite in tonality to the latter. It is these shifts, from historical drama to horror to musical fantasia, that might not be for everyone but its ambition, mastery in craft, and sheer passion are undeniable.
Michael B. Jordan’s dual performance anchors the film with emotional depth, while Jack O’Connell’s Remmick is one of the most fascinating vampire portrayals in recent cinema: neither purely evil nor entirely sympathetic; just real, bloodcurdlingly real.
The music, however, stands out as the film’s true star. Göransson’s work here is revelatory, a culmination of his collaborations with Coogler. The score while accompanying the visuals, elevates them, and in doing so, becomes part of the narrative fabric. Every pluck, slide, and beat, tells a story, conjuring ghosts of the past while forging new sonic pathways.
Sinners commemorates music. Music is magic. Music is memory. Music is resistance.
Whoever thought it could not have been done — Ryan Coogler has crafted a film that is as much about the power of art as it is about vampires. It is about how the oppressed find their voice, how that voice can be stolen, and how, through sheer and indelible force of soul, it can be reclaimed.
In the end, Sinners is so much more than a horror movie.
It is a blues song come to life. It is a lament and it is a battle cry. It is a haunting and it is a healing. It sings, and oh boy, does it sing.
Shahzad Abdullah is a PR and communications strategist, cultural curator and director of communications at Media Matters
All facts and information are the sole responsibility of the writer