One Account of An American Horror Story– Sinners Review

With a fragile yet alluring script, we—the audience—settle into our seats for a 2.5-hour journey through shadow and spectacle. Touted as a bold advancement in Black cinema, Sinners captivates with lush IMAX 70mm cinematography and rich jazz symbolism. Directed by Ryan Coogler and backed by a $90 million budget, the film boasts a star-studded cast including Michael B. Jordan, Wunmi Mosaku, Hailee Steinfeld, and newcomer Miles Caton. Set in 1932, it seeks to explore Black American history through a stylized, dreamlike lens. However, despite its artistic ambition, Sinner’s struggles with historical accuracy, revealing a tension between creative vision and the responsibility of cultural storytelling.

Beneath the critical acclaim lies a deeper concern: is Sinners a fairytale rooted in Black experience, or a glossy imitation shaped by white cinematic norms? While the film celebrates aspects of African-American culture, it also distorts or sanitizes key historical realities—risking alignment with narratives that erase or rewrite the Black experience. In a society where profit often trumps principle, Sinners raises questions about cultural authenticity, especially when applause seems to depend on white validation. Art may reflect perspective, but whose perspective is shaping the story?

Despite these thematic tensions, the film’s plot invites viewers into an atmospheric odyssey. From its first frame, the story hums with blues and old soul, wrapping its vampire tale in velvet dusk. Infamous twin brothers Smoke and Stack (Michael B. Jordan), seeking to escape the wreckage of their past, return to the weary soil of their Mississippi hometown, hoping for redemption. But what awaits them isn’t peace, it’s a darkness deeper and older than the one they left behind. As Smoke and Stack step off the bus, the once-familiar town is cloaked in a heavy fog, and the church bell tolls without wind or hand. Even the juke joint—once alive with soul music—sits eerily silent, its windows boarded as if to keep something in, not out.

As visually captivating as Sinners is, it’s not without its narrative missteps. For all its ambition, the film stumbles through a number of plot holes and inconsistencies that can pull even the most enchanted viewer out of its lush, gothic atmosphere. The timing of the vampire horde’s arrival feels oddly convenient rather than narratively earned, and the anachronistic use of modern items—like Molotov cocktails and flip-lighters in a story supposedly set in 1932—raises more questions than it answers. The vampires themselves, though menacing in presence, often act with puzzling restraint, passing up clear chances to strike, which dilutes the tension. Even continuity falters, with jarring inconsistencies in character placement—particularly during the barn sequence; that suggest moments were driven more by stylistic impulse than storytelling clarity. For a film that asks so much of its audience’s imagination, it owes us a tighter grip on its own internal logic.

Hailee Steinfeld’s character, Mary, serves as a quiet but pointed reflection on the one-drop rule—a 1662 racial doctrine that deemed anyone with Black ancestry as Black, regardless of appearance. The first state to legally codify the one-drop rule was Tennessee in 1910. Though Mary does not visually register as Black, her lineage excludes her from whiteness, underscoring the lingering power of racial classifications to shape identity in ways both subtle and profound. Her presence invites a deeper reckoning with the ways such constructs continue to constrain personal autonomy, even when their influence seems invisible. Including this theme in Sinners was essential—not only to complicate our understanding of race, but to remind audiences that history’s impact isn’t always loud or visible; sometimes, it’s carried quietly within the psyche.

The film also notably includes Asian co-stars Li Jun Li and Yao as Grace and Bo Chow, yet their relationship with Black characters is carefully idealized, glossing over the complex tensions between Black and Asian communities in the 1930s. In reality, economic disparities and systemic neglect often set these marginalized groups at odds. In the Mississippi Delta during the early 20th century—predominantly African-American yet shaped by layered migrations—a number of Chinese immigrants established grocery stores in Black communities, continuing patterns that had begun in the Reconstruction era. These close proximities fostered both cultural exchange and moments of tension, as structural racism and unequal access to capital created an economic landscape where collaboration and competition uneasily coexisted. Though these shops served vital needs, they were frequently viewed with suspicion and resentment—seen as symbols of exploitation and cultural distance, thriving amid structures that denied Black ownership and opportunity. Later, media narratives of the “model minority” further deepened this divide, weaponizing Asian American success to undermine Black civil rights struggles and fostering mistrust rather than solidarity. While moments of alliance did emerge, the era was largely marked by economic friction and racial triangulation designed to keep communities of color divided. Still, while the film falters in historical nuance, it nonetheless honors the enduring spirit at the heart of America’s complex legacy.

Midway through the film, we are tardily introduced to the vampires. The white vampire cabal, led by the enigmatic Remmick, emerges not merely as supernatural antagonists, but as chilling allegories for white supremacy and cultural appropriation. Their seductive promise of eternal life and equality comes at a harrowing cost: the erasure of Foundational American identity. Nowhere is this more starkly rendered than in their assault on the Black juke joint—a space of joy, and resistance—where they are granted entry only to desecrate it. The scene unfolds as a potent metaphor for the historical pattern of colonization within Black cultural spaces, where invitations are extended in good faith, only to be met with domination and dispossession. The vampires do not just feed on blood; they feed on legacy.In its ambition to blend genre spectacle with cultural reflection, Sinners delivers both haunting beauty and unsettling contradictions. It dares to reimagine Black history through an otherworldly lens—but falters when fantasy outweighs fidelity. While the film’s visual poetry and metaphorical ambition shimmer with moments of brilliance, its mishandling of real historical tensions—between communities, within identities, and across generations—reveals the cost of prioritizing aesthetics over accuracy. In the end, Coogler’s film is both a marvel and a mirror, reminding us that even the most hypnotic stories must bear the weight of the truths they seek to reflect.

PARKER”S CUT Sinners film rating