Sinners: Coogler’s Vampiric Blues Reinvents the Soul of Cinema

By now, many have already seen Ryan Coogler’s latest film: Sinners. So let’s talk details—spoilers included.

Coogler is already a well-known name in the film world. Many recognize him for his “commissioned” work, such as the two Black Panther films, which brought Marvel’s first African superhero to the big screen. He also directed Creed, a spin-off that revives the essence of the legendary Apollo Creed from the Rocky saga, originally portrayed by Sylvester Stallone.

But what makes Sinners truly intriguing is that it’s not another studio assignment. This time, Coogler birthed the project straight from his imagination. It comes from deep within—raw and personal. This is his most visceral work to date, miles ahead of everything he’s done before.

Like his friend Jordan Peele, Coogler boldly blends genres and references with enviable ease. He channels elements of Tarantino’s cinema, echoes of Iñárritu, and a dash of Guy Ritchie’s elegant chaos—all while keeping his own signature style. Coogler dares to play with diverse elements and toss boundaries aside. He bends narrative structure in creative and unexpected ways.

In Sinners, Coogler twists the myth. He tackles racism during the painful Jim Crow era, wraps it in gothic tones, dives into Black American music and blues legends—and yes, he throws in vampires too.

Someone once said watching Sinners feels like reading a great Stephen King novel while listening to your old Charley Patton or Robert Johnson records, with a plate of bourbon chicken and gumbo soup in front of you. That’s not far off.

The story kicks off with a pair of twin brothers—both played by Michael B. Jordan (Coogler’s go-to alter ego)—who could be mistaken for the Three Huastecos, but in a gangster version set in the Mississippi Delta rather than Mexico’s Huasteca region. Inspired by old songs like “Smokestack Lightning” (yes, the one sung by Howlin’ Wolf), the brothers flee Mississippi for Chicago. They get mixed up with Al Capone-style mobsters, steal money, and reopen their own bar filled with booze and live blues, of course.

There, they find a cousin—the son of a preacher—with a blistering talent on the guitar. A gift so powerful it could make the devil dance. They gather musicians and prepare for a grand opening night. Everything smells of legend. Think The Princess and the Frog, but with whiskey, sweat, and blood.

Coogler draws from the myth of Robert Johnson—the young guitarist who was terrible, disappeared for a year, then returned as a blues god. Legend says he sold his soul to the devil at a crossroads to achieve it. Truth? Johnson was indeed bad at first, but went to find a master who agreed to train him—on one condition: they would practice every night in a cemetery, where no one would bother them. A year later, Johnson came back with supernatural talent. The rest is history.

He became an icon—but also a victim. He loved alcohol, women—including other men’s wives—and it led to his death when a jealous husband poisoned the whiskey Johnson adored.

Coogler weaves this tale with African musical traditions, Delta blues, Celtic guitars, and the cultural bond shared among oppressed peoples. There’s a scene midway through the film that connects it all: Africa, blues, gospel, rock, and hip hop—merged in a dreamlike, masterful sequence that stands as a true work of art.

Yes, Sinners may remind some of From Dusk Till Dawn: two brothers, a bar, music, vampires, and a femme fatale-turned-vampire. But it’s no copy. Not even close. This is something else entirely—a love letter to music, to Black culture, and to stories that deserve to be told in truly creative and bold ways. It’s cinema without fear, and it leaves a lasting mark.