Like so many other tropes, movie monsters reveal specific fears within society. Robots may reflect nervousness around rapid innovation and changing technologies; aliens can either be a stand-in for the unknown in our universe and the limits of our scientific knowledge, or of foreign adversaries; gargantuan beasts like Godzilla were historically linked to nuclear fears, and zombies to nervousness around pandemics and disease. 

Vampires are no exception. From Nosferatu (1922 or 2024) to the Twilight series, the pale skin, otherworldly sex appeal, and thirst for blood of the undead stalkers connects to fundamental frights within us. Fears of death fuel our lurid desires to be immortal, while worries about the psychological harms of cannibalism are linked to the psychosexual overtones of orally bloodsucking monsters. 

Sinners, the new film from director Ryan Coogler, is the latest entry in the centuries-long history of vampires in the popular consciousness. Coogler imbues fresh blood to the trope, though, via a uniquely Black perspective that he has already used to color other familiar stories. The Rocky series had petered out with six installments, yet Coogler's Creed (2015) brought new life by focusing on a Black protagonist living and fighting within different Philly communities. Similarly, the Marvel Cinematic Universe received a much-needed artistic shot in the arm from an African sci-fi hero in Black Panther (2018). And this outing of Coogler's is even more original and action-packed than its predecessors, with steamy criminal dealings of the 1930s Mississippi River Delta, complex and physical adult relationships, and splattering violence all delivering a great theatrical experience especially in IMAX 65mm.

The story begins in media res, with a bloodied and haunted young man staggering into a humble church, clutching a broken guitar handle. The pastor beckons to him, invoking language of forgiveness yet connecting the young man's guitar-playing to sin and mystical evil. Flashing back to a day earlier, we learn that the young man is Sammie (played with wide-eyed boyishness by relative newcomer Miles Caton), and that the pastor is his father, whose rigid shadow he lives in as he tries to make a name for himself as a blues musician. Sammie's cousins, Smoke and Stack (both played by Coogler veteran Michael B. Jordan in an astonishingly cool and composed dual role), have come back from World War I military service and Chicago mafia activity to set up shop and return to their Mississippi roots. 

Their first scheme is to start a juke joint in an abandoned warehouse with dancing, live music, and plenty of booze to draw plenty of customers escaping the limitations of Prohibition. They buy the building from a racist landowner, recruit staff, and assemble a blues band. Each of them also has unfinished romantic business to attend to, too; Smoke visits his ex-wife Annie (a powerfully maternal yet sensuous Wunmi Mosaku) to try to salve over the pain of their daughter's death, while Stack runs into his childhood flame Mary (a slyly appealing Hailee Steinfeld) and tries to explain his running out on her. 

With all the pieces in place, the brothers are prepared for a great opening night, and the tunes are playing and liquor flowing to a crowd of Black sharecroppers and townspeople as the sun goes down. Yet unbeknownst to them, a powerful coven of vampires is forming right outside under the spell of Irish vampire Remmick (a playfully threatening Jack O'Connell) and two KKK members who he has killed and turned (Peter Dreimanis and Lola Kirke). When the vampires are denied entry to the joint they are forced to lurk around, yet one by one begin targeting party guests, staff, and ultimately Smoke, Stack, and Sammie themselves.

On face value, Sinners is a blast. Top-notch action sequences make the most of makeshift weapons and vampire gore, and each throat slit and flesh chunk bitten is physically felt. Costume design draws on workwear for both fashion and function, giving characters plenty of panache plus the mobility to kill vampires thanks to Oscar winner Ruth E. Carter (whose Black-centered resume includes 1989's Do The Right Thing and 1998's Blade). It also helps distinguish the otherwise-identical hot-headed Stack (always in red) and the cooler Smoke (likewise in blue). Similarly characterizing the film is thoughtful set design situating us squarely within a dusty Prohibition-era Southern small town — production designer Hannah Beachler adapts her Afrofuturist reimagining of Wakanda to build out a memorable and distinctive Black American past. 

Cinematographer Autumn Durald Arkapaw frames many shots beautifully, especially the full IMAX ones, although the big-screen transitions between multiple very disparate aspect ratios are consistent distractions. But the luminosity and scale of IMAX 65mm is worth it, particularly for that one scene (you'll know it when you see it) and multiple shots of fire that convey vampiric themes of Hell, vengeance, and destruction. And it's all set to Ludwig Göransson's entrancing score with gospel songs, vampire chants, steel guitar, and original and folk compositions alike. 

But the film is also a real, fresh, adult vampire story. Our three male leads approach sex differently, for instance, in a way that characterizes each: Stack's rashness causes him to abandon Mary but also rekindle things with her in a vigorous way; Smoke's staid persona has gone through pain and heartbreak but has a real sensual tenderness for Annie; and Sammie is trying too hard throughout to prove himself as a "grown" man to women just as he proves himself as a business partner to his cousins. They also all have daddy issues that reflect the complex relationships we all harbor, from Sammie escaping his "preacher's son" moniker to the recurring Chekov's gun of the twins' father's guitar — not to mention the burgeoning father figures the twins are playing to Sammie, as they conspicuously lack sons of their own. 

Most significantly, the racial themes of Sinners complicate and deepen the dualling appeals and fears surrounding vampires. Ever since Smoke and Stack are shaken down by a racist white man in buying their juke joint early in the film, the power that Jim Crow has over them is tangible. Despite serving in the military and enjoying relative freedom in Chicago, they are back in the South and subject to its implicit and explicit violence against Black people. And even though Coogler is careful to accurately represent the surprising diversity of the Delta community, white supremacy is unavoidable for the brothers. So when three "white" vampires make an overt promise to their Black community — allow yourself to be turned and enjoy immortality, untouchable to the earthly risks facing you — it's hard for the characters (or us, the audience) to deny the appeal. 

The classic literal whiteness of vampires thus adopts an added metaphorical nuance, especially given how their apparent post-racial community brings together Klansmen and Black sharecroppers. In turn, it can be no coincidence that the lead vampire, Remmick, is Irish, and consequently would be no doubt subject to racism and xenophobia at the time. When he leads an energetic Irish jig, for example, it simultaneously serves as a musical reprieve, a tense build-up to vampiric onslaught, and a nod to the character's history and contribution to the melting pot of the American South. In the world of Sinners, the option of trading one's humanity to escape persecution is one without an obvious "right" outcome, and music characterizes us just as it elevates passions. 

Ryan Coogler is unquestionably one of the most exciting voices in cinema, and is also coming into his own as an ambassador for the art form in initiatives such as his widely-publicized lesson on aspect ratios for Kodak. If he keeps making original films like Sinners, it will be a glimmer of hope in an otherwise hard time for the industry.