"Sinners": Shock, Blood, Genius

Sinners Cast lead by Michael B. Jordan

SINNERS. No, you don’t need another review of this film. But this is my house, and I write what moves me. Why? Because I’m ignited. Because I’ve never seen a vampire film like this—raw, regal, reimagined. Because a Black man made something that kissed horror on the mouth and made it gospel. Because Ryan Coogler just baptized cinema in blood and brilliance. Because this—this—is the kind of art I dream of kneeling before.

Ryan Coogler, you terrify me. Not in the Hollywood sense. Not in the monsters-on-screen way. You scare me because your presence stirs up the ghosts of boys who bruised me for being soft, for being me. you trigger something deep within me—an echo of past biases, a fear shaped by the shadows of those who never saw me as I am. You remind me of them—until your work slaps me awake and says, “Don’t judge the Black man by the trauma he triggers.” I don’t know you. But every time you create—Fruitvale Station, Black Panther, and now this—you rip my own hypocrisy open. You are what they won’t let me be in this industry: a free Black artist unboxed, unbothered, and unbent. You create like your soul can’t be silenced. And yes, if we ever meet, I might still flinch—Not out of fear, but awe. Not because I’m scared you’ll hurt me—But because your artistry punches harder than fists ever did. And let’s get this straight—pun intended—this ain’t a “crush” like that. I’m gay, yes. Gloriously. But this is an artistic obsession. A full-body admiration. A standing ovation in my chest.

This film? Not your average horror flick. You don’t just watch it. You feel it snake through your spine. You fall in love—with the people, the legacy, the pulse of history breathing beneath fangs and folklore. Yes. History. The kind we’re usually cut out of. From Native bloodlines to diasporic faces to the rich threads of asian culture and black folklore brought into the moonlight—This film is a rebellion in reels. I know, I know—where are the Latinos? And the Latinos? Baby, low key they’re here too—carried in the bones of the land, in the Native bloodline that shaped them long before borders tried to name them. But pause. That history’s knotted and nuanced. Another blog for another time. Right now? We’re talking art. And ya'll, this is cinema baptized in fire.

Let’s talk sound. The music? The music is not underscore. It is not background. It does not sit politely beneath dialogue. It breathes. It bleeds. It acts. The music is a character—fully embodied, fully alive. It mourns when the scene can’t. It screams when the actors whispers. It dances when the camera holds still. It drags the story by the throat when the plot needs to catch up.The score is a spiritual presence—Haunting. Holy. Hood. Operatic. It is heartbeat and ghost. And it never lets you go.

Miles Caton—remember the name. A voice that trembles through your ribs. Eyes that undress the truth. When he opens his mouth to sing, heaven leans in. A star. Period.

Michael B. Jordan? Consistent excellence. Effortless magnetism. You know the vibe.

But Delroy Lindo? My God. A masterclass in acting. Every line, every breath, laced with a quiet thunder. His performance had me unraveling. I don’t just want him nominated for an Oscar—I want the Academy to apologize for taking this long.

I promised no spoilers, and I’ll keep that. But I had to write this. Because this film didn’t just entertain me—it awakened me. It cracked something open.

Ryan Coogler, I don’t care how many gates I have to kick down—I will work with you one day. Before I leave this earth, our paths must collide. Because what you made? It’s everything I believe art should be—Unapologetic. Unshakable. Alive.

You are everything.