Ryan Coogler reclaims Black history through vampire lore in his ambitious new film, “Sinners,” which is now available to stream and set for a physical release in July. The film brings together a remarkable cast including Michael B. Jordan, Wunmi Mosaku, Jack O’Connell, Hailee Steinfeld, Miles Caton, Delroy Lindo, Lola Kirke, and Peter Dreimanis. Taking place in a charged rural setting, “Sinners” interrogates ideas of safety, illusion, and cultural inheritance, as a mysterious man named Remmick (Jack O’Connell) appears one night, his life hanging in the balance while he seeks refuge at the doorstep of Joan (Lola Kirke) and Bert (Peter Dreimanis).
Before the Choctaw hunters can arrive to warn the household that Remmick is not what he seems, Joan and Bert have already let him in, their trust amplified by his appearance – an early hint at the deadly consequences of misplaced faith and the illusion of safety. Coogler uses these pivotal entry moments as a metaphor for the ways communities, often lured by false promises, can unwittingly invite danger or oppression into their most sacred spaces.
The Entrancing Power of the Vampire at the Threshold
Much of “Sinners” is set at the boundary between outside threat and inside sanctuary – doorways becoming a visual motif echoing the folkloric crossroads where, as with Robert Johnson’s devil’s bargain, life-altering choices are made. These scenes are saturated with suspense as characters like Smoke, Stack, Annie, Mary, Sammie, Delta Slim, and the gathered community face the seductive challenge presented by Remmick and others like him. Remmick’s arrival, drawn in by Sammie’s music at Club Juke, incites a dangerous magic that traps everyone in a moment of decision.
The character is masterfully rendered by O’Connell, who radiates danger beneath a polished veneer. He speaks convincingly about equality, money, and the transcendent nature of music, even joining in with a soulful banjo performance that delights Stack and astonishes the rest of the audience. But his warmth is a carefully constructed glamour, designed to hide his true intentions – to consume, appropriate, and take possession of the community’s art, stories, and spirit.
Unmasking the Seductive Nature of Vampirism
At the heart of “Sinners” is the question of what captivates, entrances, and ultimately seduces a community, especially under threat. By employing vampire mythology, Coogler strips away the romanticized notion of the modern vampire to return to its roots in fear and abjection. Historically, stories from Babylonia’s Lilitu (identified in later eras as Lilith), the Vedic vetala, the strigoi, and other blood-drinking demons portray the vampire as a horrifying, repulsive figure. Only in the early nineteenth century did the image shift to the magnetic, sexualized predator recognizable today.
This shift began with John Polidori’s “The Vampyre” in 1819, where Lord Ruthven’s attractiveness and charisma masked a predatory heart. This model was expanded by writers like Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu (“Carmilla,” 1872) and Bram Stoker (“Dracula,” 1897), all referencing the theories of Franz Mesmer and the concept of animal magnetism – the invisible force believed to influence and shape those under its sway.
The sinister implications of Mesmer’s magnetism went well beyond the literary realm. As a tool to exert one person’s will over another, it paralleled real-world power dynamics and the manipulation of agency, providing fertile ground for allegorical horror stories.
The Horror of Control and Enslavement
Mesmer’s theories found a new home in Haiti (then referred to as St. Domingo), introduced by Antoine-Hyacinthe de Puységur, a French aristocrat and student of Mesmer considered one of the forefathers of hypnotism. Arriving in 1784, just before the Haitian Revolution, Puységur used hypnotic techniques on enslaved people, seeking to render them compliant – a process the enslaved understood as an attack on the soul itself, equating it with being turned into a zonbi, the living dead forced to labor without autonomy or hope of escape.
This deep-seated fear persisted throughout the Haitian Revolution, the largest and most successful slave uprising in history, influencing American anxieties and shaping a particular strain of monster tales. In late 1819, following the publication of “The Vampyre,” an American identified as Uriah Derick D’Arcy wrote
“The Black Vampyre: A Legend of St. Domingo,”
widely considered the first American vampire story and among the original works of abolitionist fiction. The plot revolves around an enslaved child who takes a bloody revenge against a slave-owner, then returns years later to entwine himself further with the oppressor’s family by turning his wife into a vampire.
Black Spirituality and Its Demonization in the Monster Narrative
D’Arcy’s “The Black Vampyre” reflects the era’s tension between European control and African spirituality. The titular vampire, referred to as The Prince, draws his supernatural allure not from European sources but from Obeah, an African spiritual tradition often conflated with Vodoun. Practices like Vodoun, Obeah, Santeria, and hoodoo became objects of terror for slave traders and their supporters because they represented a spiritual power resistant to domination and violence.
To combat and demonize these belief systems, colonizers turned to mesmerism and constructed monster narratives that painted African spiritual practices as sources of evil or “black magic.” This narrative strategy cemented the trope of African-derived powers as malevolent forces, a view that found persistent expression in American entertainment and storytelling, even before the United States was formally established as a nation.
Through tales like “The Black Vampyre,” the psychic and spiritual confrontation between European models of control and African sovereignty was played out through supernatural metaphors, a tension that continues to shape vampire fiction and cultural perceptions to this day.
Resurrecting Tensions in Modern Horror: Sinners as Counter-Myth
In “Sinners,” Ryan Coogler resurrects these historical and cultural struggles by situating the narrative at the intersection of African spiritual traditions and the mythos of vampirism. Annie’s rootwork – a practice grounded in African American folk magic – acts as a shield for her community, warding off Remmick’s spectral attempt at domination. At the same time, Remmick’s magnetic pull, reminiscent of Mesmer’s theories, tempts and threatens to drain the lifeblood, creativity, and joy from the people he targets.
Physical spaces like Club Juke and the home become battlegrounds for sovereignty and survival. Smoke and Stack, both property owners, are under threat from the Klan – an outside force that would rather destroy the fabric of the community than allow its autonomy to stand. The narrative repeatedly focuses on the liminal space of the door, symbolizing both protection and the ever-present danger of invasion from outside forces.
Throughout the film, Remmick embodies duality: the seduction of white supremacy mingled with longing for communion with Black music, storytelling, and culture. When he speaks of Death and the Outside as a form of freedom, he connects to a deep stream of grief and defiance – the very source that has given rise to the Blues and shaped Black horror since its inception.
The Power of the Monstrous and Liberation Through Transformation
Coogler’s film embraces the monstrous not only as a threat but as a site of infinite creative potential and healing. To become a monster, to inspire fear in those who have historically inspired fear in you, can offer a sense of catharsis and empowerment. This theme resonates strongly with Black, queer, and Black queer communities whose monstrousness – the refusal to be constrained by norms – becomes a wellspring of freedom and belonging, even when rooted in exile or otherness.
Characters like Smoke and Stack illustrate that opposition can emerge from love, not just conflict, and their journeys echo the dividing paths that define both personal and community evolution. Sammie’s experience, characterized as
“the best day of his life”
—Sammie, before the sun went down, marks a crucial turning point between continuing his father’s legacy or forging his own path through music.
Music and Cultural Memory as Forms of Resistance
The recurring image of the door to Club Juke, and later Pearline’s door, becomes a powerful symbol of psychic and spiritual thresholds. It represents access to the very soul of Black life: the music, medicines, narratives, and monsters birthed from struggle, celebration, and resilience. Coogler draws attention to the necessity of learning to
“dance with the devil without inviting him inside”
– an apt metaphor for surviving and flourishing in hostile or oppressive environments.
This central image weaves together threads of blues, jazz, spiritual tradition, and the stories that have allowed Black communities to endure, adapt, and create culture from hardship. In this world, music remains a guiding light, a way home, and a continual act of resistance.
Anticipating Impact and the Cultural Legacy of ‘Sinners’
“Sinners” stands out for its historical awareness and inventive retelling of familiar genre conventions, combining intense suspense with a layered exploration of African spirituality and cultural legacy. By reframing the classic vampire story through the lens of Black history and resilience, Ryan Coogler offers a new cultural mythos for a contemporary audience.
As the film reaches broader audiences with its streaming debut and impending physical release, it is poised to spark renewed discussions about possession, agency, and survival across generations. The resonance of Coogler’s work will likely invite more filmmakers, historians, and cultural critics to reconsider the stories we tell about monsters – and what those tales reveal about both the past and possible futures for Black artistry, identity, and community strength.
