Walking out of the theater after watching award-winning filmmaker Ryan Coogler’s Sinners, I sat in my car for ten minutes, trying to process what I’d just seen.
I wasn’t scared in the traditional sense, unlike I’d seen a slasher flick or a cheap jump-scare movie. I’m not a fan of horror movies, but this film had me wanting a part 2. It was the feeling that gnaws at your soul because it’s rooted in truth. Before I continue, this is a mini-spoiler, so if you haven’t watched the movie, I suggest you save this for later.
Sinners doesn’t just reimagine Black history—it resurrects it, and dares us to look directly at the monster: American racism, sharpened into fangs.
Coogler is working once again with actor Michael B. Jordan and has created a cinematic experience that feels like the next evolution in Black storytelling. It reminded me of what Spike Lee and Denzel Washington were doing in the 90s, only now, it’s horror that’s being wielded as the weapon of choice. This is Coogler and Jordan’s fifth collaboration since Fruitvale Station in 2013, and like their predecessors, they just don’t miss.
Set in Clarksdale, Mississippi, during the height of the Jim Crow era, Sinners centers around Sammie (played by newcomer Miles Caton), a young Black man who wants to break from his family’s religious roots and instead chase the blues. His twin cousins (The Smokestack twins played by Jordan), fresh from Chicago and flush with dirty money earned under American gangster Al Capone, open a juke joint that becomes the site of both celebration and carnage. The symbolism is layered from the jump, the church versus the blues music, the South versus the North, escape versus staying put.
I was taking some notes during the movie. I’ll be going back to watch the movie again to watch out for other context that I might have missed, but here are some of my thoughts on my first viewing:
Blues vs. Gospel
Sammie’s struggle between staying in the church and playing the blues hit close to home. So many in the community were raised to believe the gospel is holy and secular music is sinful. When Sammie’s preacher father says, “Your heart and soul belong to the Lord,” it’s not just about music. It’s about the fear Black parents have watching their children try to make it in a world that doesn’t love them back. That moment when Sammie sings “Somebody Take Me” that was bigger than a song. That was spiritual warfare. The way Black folks danced in that juke joint? That was freedom.
Vampires as White Supremacy in Disguise
Now let’s talk about those vampires. They weren’t just monsters. They were metaphors. Remmick and his crew didn’t storm in looking like a threat. They came singing the blues, trying to act like they understood us. That’s how white supremacy works sometimes. It doesn’t always come dressed like the Klan. Sometimes it smiles, sings your music, and still drains the life out of you. One of the vampires even spoke Chinese because they steal culture the way they steal lives. They wear other people’s pain like costumes and call it art. That’s the danger.
Stack Twins: Red and Blue
The Stack twins were two sides of the same coin. Smoke was about the money, and Stack was about the vibes. One wanted power, the other wanted peace. But both were trying to find a way to survive a system that wasn’t built for them. Their colors—red and blue—felt symbolic, too. They reminded me of the choices we often face in our community: fight or flight, hustle or heal, stay or go.
The Juke Joint
The juke joint felt like a sacred space where Black folks could laugh, dance, love and be fully human, if only for a night. That’s why it hurt so much when it turned into a slaughterhouse. It reminded me of all the spaces Black folk built just to breathe—churches, clubs, barbershops, beauty salons—only for them to be targeted, infiltrated or burned down. Black joy has always been a threat to systems that want us broken.
The Great Migration
The Stack twins coming back home from Chicago with gangster money reminded me that just because you leave the South doesn’t mean you’ve escaped racism. They told Sammie straight up—“It ain’t any better up there.” The Great Migration gave us new cities and new dreams, but the same old demons followed, and oppression was just put on a different face.
Asians in the Community – Close, But Not With Us
I also couldn’t ignore the way the Asian shopkeepers were portrayed. They lived and worked close to Black folks, made their money in our communities, but when the danger came, they dipped. That’s real. Too often, we’ve seen non-Black communities benefit from our presence without ever standing in solidarity with us when things get rough. And Coogler didn’t shy away from showing that. It wasn’t about blame—it was about truth. Proximity doesn’t equal protection.
Ancestral Protection – Hoodoo
Annie, Smoke’s wife (played by Wunmi Mosaku), gave Smoke a protection necklace because she knew what was coming. That was ancestral knowledge—hoodoo, Juju—the kind of wisdom passed down from grandmothers who didn’t need a Bible to know how to keep demons at bay. Not everything spiritual comes from the church. Some of it comes from the roots, the ancestors.
Native Warnings
And shoutout to the Native American characters who warned the white folks about the vampires. Native folks already lived through genocide and colonization of their land. They knew what was coming. And it made me wonder—how many warnings have we ignored as a people because the evil came dressed nicely?
Black Love and Loyalty
Despite all the darkness, one of the most beautiful things about Sinners was how it showed Black love—romantic, brotherly, and community love. It reminded me that our love is resistance. To love in the face of horror is a radical act. And that love is what keeps us going, generation after generation.
At the end, when Sammie returns to church like the prodigal son, you see the conflict isn’t over. He still chooses his path, still carries the music in his bones. That’s what this film leaves us with—choice. We can be raised a certain way, warned about what’s out there, but eventually, we all have to decide what we’re letting into our lives and what we’re fighting to keep out.
What makes Sinners different from other horror films with racial subtext (like Get Out, for instance) is how rooted it is in specific ancestral memory. Coogler talks about how the story was inspired by his uncle and grandfather, both from Mississippi. That connection shows. You can feel the weight of family history in every shot.
In this political climate, where Black history is being banned from classrooms and sanitized in public discourse, a film like Sinners is essential. It’s a reminder that horror is not just what lurks in the shadows. Sometimes, it wears a badge. Sometimes, it passes laws. Sometimes, it smiles in your face. But through it all, Black folks have resisted, created and survived.
