Sinners: Proof that the Devil has all the Best Tunes

Modern cinema has become a bit like a modern electric hatchback: clinically efficient, eerily quiet, and possessing all the soul of a microwave oven. You sit in the dark for two hours, watch a man in spandex punch a CGI cloud, and leave feeling like you’ve just spent the afternoon at a health and safety seminar.

But then, along comes Sinners. And suddenly, it’s like someone has lobbed a live grenade into a library.

Ryan Coogler hasn’t just made a movie; he’s bottled the humid, bone-chilling dread of the 1930s American South and spiked it with something supernatural and deeply, deeply angry. It’s dark, it’s visceral, and it has the kind of tension that makes you feel like you’re trapped in a lift with a Doberman that hasn’t been fed since Tuesday.

However, we need to talk about the real star of the show. It’s not Michael B. Jordan—who, let’s be honest, is excellent, but always looks like he spends far too much time in the gym lifting heavy pieces of iron just for the hell of it. No. The real star is the soundtrack.

My God, that music. Ludwig Göransson hasn’t just written some notes on a page; he’s conjured a sound from the very bowels of the earth. It’s not something you hear with your ears; it’s something you feel vibrating in your lower intestine, right next to that questionable service-station sandwich you had for lunch.

It’s a haunting, grinding blend of ancestral blues and pure, unadulterated terror. While you’re watching the twins face off against whatever unholy nightmare is lurking in the shadows, the music doesn’t just "play." It prowls. It’s like having a psychopathic cellist sitting in your backseat, whispering threats while you’re trying to navigate a tricky roundabout.

If a Marvel soundtrack is a jingle for a low-fat yoghurt advert, this is the roar of a V12 Lamborghini being thrashed through a cathedral at midnight. It’s grand, it’s menacing, and it’s utterly intoxicating.

In an age where everything is filtered, sanitized, and "safe," Sinners is a necessary reminder that movies can still be terrifyingly alive. It grabs you by the scruff of the neck and refuses to let go until the credits roll.

It’s a film for people who like their atmosphere thick, their stakes high, and their soundtracks to sound like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse have just formed a blues band. It is magnificent. It is terrifying. And I want to experience it all over again.