There is a delicious, almost literary irony in the news that ‘Sinners’—a film explicitly concerning the machinations of vampires—has shattered the record for Academy Award nominations with a staggering sixteen nods. For decades, the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences has operated under a delusion of grandeur, convinced that its golden statuettes were best reserved for sweeping historical epics, saccharine biopics about tortured geniuses, or musicals about how difficult it is to be an actor in Los Angeles. But in bestowing sixteen nominations upon a horror film about bloodsuckers, Hollywood has inadvertently committed its single greatest act of honesty in a century. Finally, the industry is awarding a documentary about itself.

The number sixteen is, frankly, grotesque. It is a figure of excess that surpasses ‘Titanic,’ ‘All About Eve,’ and ‘La La Land.’ Consider the implication here: the Academy voters, a geriatric demographic usually terrified of loud noises and anything resembling a genre thrill, have decided that a vampire flick is technically and artistically superior to the entirety of cinema history. Is this a genuine appreciation for Ryan Coogler’s craft? One would hope so, though I remain skeptical. It feels more like a desperate, feverish pivot by an institution staring into the abyss of its own irrelevance. Faced with dwindling viewership and a populace that would rather watch TikToks of cats falling off furniture than a three-hour ceremony celebrating millionaires, the Academy has panicked. They have looked at the zeitgeist, seen that the world is currently a horrorscape, and decided to align their brand with the macabre.

But let us return to the central metaphor, because it is simply too perfect to ignore. The vampire is the ultimate Hollywood archetype. It is a creature that maintains a veneer of seductive youth by draining the life force from the living. It is a soulless entity that cannot see its own reflection—much like a studio executive trying to understand why a superhero movie flopped. By embracing ‘Sinners’ with such hysterical enthusiasm, the voters are engaging in a subconscious ritual of self-congratulation. They are not just voting for Michael B. Jordan; they are voting for the concept of predation as an art form. In the glimmering eyes of the film’s antagonists, the producers see themselves: eternal, hungry, and terrified of the dawn.

The sheer statistical absurdity of the sixteen nominations also points to a frantic grade inflation that mirrors the collapsing global economy. Just as the dollar buys less than it used to, an Oscar nomination seems to mean significantly less than it did in the era of ‘Ben-Hur.’ To garner sixteen nominations, a film must be nominated in nearly every conceivable category, from the acting heavyweights to the technical minutiae of sound mixing and costume design. It implies a perfection that is statistically improbable. Yet, here we are. The industry has consolidated its praise onto a single vehicle, likely because it is the only vehicle they understand. It is a blockbuster with artistic pretensions, the holy grail of a business model that is rapidly running out of road.

One must also appreciate the cynicism required to elevate ‘genre’ film to this status only now. For decades, the Academy turned its nose up at horror. Alfred Hitchcock’s ‘Psycho’ was largely ignored in the major categories; Kubrick’s ‘The Shining’ was dismissed. But now, in the Year of Our Lord 2025, horror is suddenly prestige? This is not an evolution of taste; it is a calculation of market share. The horror genre is one of the few reliable box office draws left in a theatrical landscape decimated by streaming. By hugging ‘Sinners’ so tight they might crush its ribcage, the Academy is trying to siphon off its commercial vitality. It is a parasitic relationship. How fitting.

Ultimately, this record-breaking achievement serves as a tombstone for the old way of doing things. The desperation is palpable in the headlines. ‘Look at us!’ the Academy screams. ‘We are edgy! We like vampires! We are relevant!’ But beneath the sixteen nominations lies a hollow core. They are awarding a film about sinners because they require absolution. They are celebrating the extraction of blood because the industry is anemic. When the ceremony airs, and the statues are inevitably handed out in a conveyor belt of self-admiration, the audience at home will witness a spectacle of irony: a room full of people who refuse to age, applauding a story about the curse of eternal life. The theater of the absurd has a new act, and for once, the casting is impeccable.