The 10 Best Animated Films of the 1980s

I came of age in the 1980s, and I’ve watched the animation medium evolve from “kiddie fare” into a legitimate art form capable of exploring complex themes and pushing visual boundaries. The ’80s were a pivotal decade—animation studios were taking risks, creators were breaking rules, and fans like me were discovering that animated films could be as intellectually challenging and emotionally resonant as their live-action counterparts.

This top 10 countdown represents my personal ranking of the decade’s most groundbreaking animated works that no only focused on kids, but also specifically targeted adult audiences through horror, sci-fi, and mature themes. These aren’t your Saturday morning cartoons—they’re the films that redefined what animation could be, paving the way for everything that followed.

So grab your VHS tapes, Screen Demons, and join me as I count down the ten greatest animated features that proved cartoons weren’t just for kids anymore.

10. Gandahar (1988)

Synopsis: In the peaceful world of Gandahar, the inhabitants live in harmony with their bioengineered environment until mysterious metallic men begin appearing, turning citizens to stone. The queen sends her son, Prince Sylvain, on a mission to discover the source of this threat, leading him through time paradoxes and surreal landscapes to confront a rogue artificial intelligence.

Review: René Laloux’s French-Czech collaboration is a psychedelic fever dream of animation that never quite found its audience, but remains a fascinating artifact for animation enthusiasts. The film’s hallucinatory visuals—gelatinous landscapes and biomorphic designs—are its greatest strength, creating a dreamlike atmosphere that’s enhanced by Gabriel Yared’s haunting electronic score.

What fascinates me most about Gandahar is how it uses its surrealist imagery to deliver a potent ecological allegory. The Men of Metal symbolize humanity’s self-destructive relationship with technology, a theme that feels even more relevant today than it did in 1988. While the narrative can feel disjointed and the English adaptation (retitled “Light Years” and scripted by Isaac Asimov) loses some nuance, the sheer visual imagination on display makes this worth seeking out.

Gandahar failed commercially but has been rediscovered in recent years. If you enjoy animation that challenges conventional visual language and aren’t afraid of a film that requires active interpretation rather than passive viewing, this overlooked gem deserves your attention.

9. Fire and Ice (1983)

Synopsis: In a prehistoric fantasy world, the evil ice lord Nekron extends his frozen kingdom, threatening all free people. When Princess Teegra of the tropical kingdom Firekeep is kidnapped, a young warrior named Larn teams up with the mysterious wanderer Darkwolf to rescue her and stop Nekron’s icy expansion.

Review: Ralph Bakshi and Frank Frazetta’s rotoscoped sword-and-sorcery epic is essentially a moving Frazetta painting—which is both its greatest strength and its fundamental weakness. The film’s visual approach, tracing over footage of athletes and dancers to create unnaturally fluid movement, results in some of the most dynamic action sequences of 1980s animation.

The plot itself—a warrior rescuing a princess from an ice lord—is frustratingly thin, serving mainly as a vehicle for showcasing Frazetta’s iconic visual style. The characters are archetypal to the point of being one-dimensional, and the dialogue often falls flat. Yet there’s something hypnotic about watching these exaggerated heroic figures in motion, especially during the combat sequences.

Fire and Ice represents an interesting experiment in bringing comic art aesthetics to animation, influencing later works from Castlevania to The Spine of Night. While it never transcends its pulpy origins, it’s a fascinating artifact for fans of fantasy art and animation technique. I still revisit it occasionally, not for its story, but for those moments when the combination of rotoscoped movement and Frazetta-inspired visuals creates something genuinely mesmerizing.

8. Rock & Rule (1983)

Synopsis: In a post-apocalyptic world inhabited by humanoid animals, aging rock star Mok seeks to summon a demon using a special voice. When he discovers that Angel, the vocalist of a struggling band called The Drats, possesses this voice, he kidnaps her, leading her bandmates on a rescue mission to his fortress in Nuke York.

Review: Nelvana’s ambitious rock opera is Canada’s first full-length animated feature and remains one of the most fascinating failures in animation history. The film’s production history is almost as compelling as its content—plagued by budget issues and studio interference, it underwent significant edits and even had its protagonist’s voice recast for American release.

Rock & Rule is unique because of its seamless fusion of post-apocalyptic aesthetics with new wave sensibilities, creating an atmosphere that could only exist in the early 1980s. The soundtrack features vocal performances by Debbie Harry, Lou Reed, and Iggy Pop—musical legends who bring authentic rock credibility to this strange tale of demonic summoning and artistic integrity.

Rock & Rule bombed commercially, but its critique of commercialism—Mok’s demonic ritual as a metaphor for selling one’s soul for fame—resonates with anyone who’s witnessed the music industry’s dark side. For animation fans who appreciate cult classics that swing for the fences and miss in fascinating ways, Rock & Rule remains essential viewing. I encountered it on late-night cable in the ’80s, and its strange brew of science fiction, horror, and rock opera has haunted me ever since.

The animation employs rotoscoping for concert sequences, creating an effective contrast between the gritty urban landscapes and the ethereal demonic realm. Debbie Harry’s “Angel’s Song” is a particular highlight, an earworm that’s stayed with me for decades.

7. Neo Tokyo (1987)

Synopsis: This Japanese anthology (also known as Manie-Manie) combines three distinct stories: “Labyrinth Labyrinthos,” where a young girl and her cat enter a bizarre maze; “Running Man,” following a psychic racer whose powers lead to his destruction; and “Construction Cancellation Order,” about a corporate employee’s struggle to shut down an autonomous construction project.

Review: Neo Tokyo represents the perfect entry point for viewers curious about the experimental side of Japanese animation in the 1980s. Directors Rintaro, Yoshiaki Kawajiri, and Katsuhiro Otomo each bring their distinctive visions to segments that combine to create a meditation on technology, identity, and human connection.

“Running Man” is the standout for me—Kawajiri’s visceral tale of a telekinetic racer whose obsession leads to a spectacular mental breakdown features some of the most kinetic animation of the decade. The segment critiques the dehumanizing effects of competition while delivering exhilarating race sequences.

The anthology’s use of classical music (notably Erik Satie’s Gymnopédies in “Labyrinth Labyrinthos”) and minimalist dialogue creates a contemplative tone that invites multiple interpretations. Each viewing reveals new layers to these strange, beautiful stories.

Neo Tokyo had limited theatrical distribution outside Japan, which is unfortunate given its influence on later works like Satoshi Kon’s Perfect Blue and Paprika. While it doesn’t have the name recognition of Akira, it’s arguably just as important in understanding the evolution of mature Japanese animation. I discovered it on a poorly-subtitled VHS in the early ’90s and was immediately captivated by its willingness to embrace the surreal and psychological over traditional narrative.

6. Robot Carnival (1987)

Synopsis: This Japanese anthology comprises nine vignettes exploring humanity’s relationship with technology. From the whimsical opening and closing segments featuring a massive mechanical circus to poignant tales of robot-human connections, each short film showcases a different animation style and thematic approach.

Review: Robot Carnival is a testament to the creative freedom animation studios were enjoying in late-’80s Japan. The anthology format allows directors like Katsuhiro Otomo and Yasuomi Umetsu to experiment with different visual styles and storytelling approaches while maintaining a cohesive thematic thread about our relationship with technology.

What makes Robot Carnival special is how it ranges from the whimsical to the apocalyptic, often in adjacent segments. “Presence,” Otomo’s contribution about a Victorian-era inventor’s obsession with a lifelike android, is a haunting meditation on loneliness and obsession. By contrast, “Starlight Angel” presents a glittering techno-utopia that masks the emptiness of virtual relationships.

The film’s minimal dialogue enhances its international accessibility, relying instead on Isaku Fujita’s evocative score to guide viewers through its emotional landscape. The anthology format showcases the diversity of Japanese animation styles, from the stark chiaroscuro of “Nightmare” to the surrealistic imagery of “Cloud.”

Robot Carnival’s international release introduced Western audiences to the richness of Japanese animation beyond the action-oriented titles that dominated early anime imports. When I first saw it at a campus film festival in the early ’90s, it fundamentally changed my understanding of what animation could accomplish without words. For animation enthusiasts seeking to understand the medium’s evolution, Robot Carnival remains essential viewing.

5. Royal Space Force: The Wings of Honneamise (1987)

Synopsis: In an alternate world, Shirotsugh Lhadatt joins the underfunded and ridiculed Royal Space Force. Initially apathetic, his encounter with a religious woman named Riquinni transforms his outlook, leading him to volunteer as the first person to attempt orbital spaceflight—a mission complicated by political machinations and military interests.

Review: Hiroyuki Yamaga’s debut film for Studio Gainax is animation as pure cinema—a contemplative character study wrapped in meticulous worldbuilding. Unlike most science fiction anime of its era, Royal Space Force eschews action sequences for philosophical exploration, examining how personal growth parallels technological advancement.

What continues to astound me about this film is its attention to detail. The alternate world features constructed languages, hybrid technologies, and cultural practices that feel authentically lived-in. Every background contains information about this society’s history and values, rewarding attentive viewers with a richness rarely seen in animation.

Shirotsugh’s journey from cynicism to purpose mirrors post-war Japan’s struggle for cultural reinvention, offering a nuanced critique of militarism and nationalism that feels relevant three decades later. The film’s space launch sequence, accompanied by Ryuichi Sakamoto’s soaring score, achieves a transcendent quality that rivals anything in 2001: A Space Odyssey.

Royal Space Force’s production nearly bankrupted Studio Gainax, and its commercial failure belies its long-term impact on filmmakers like Hideaki Anno (Neon Genesis Evangelion). Having discovered it in college through an animation professor who treated it with the same reverence as Tarkovsky or Kubrick, I’ve returned to it repeatedly, finding new details and interpretations with each viewing. It remains the most thematically ambitious animated film of the 1980s.

4. Vampire Hunter D (1985)

Synopsis: In a post-nuclear future where vampires rule over humans from technological fortresses, a young woman named Doris hires the mysterious half-vampire hunter D to protect her from Count Magnus Lee, an ancient vampire noble who wishes to make her his bride. D battles Lee’s monstrous minions while struggling with his own vampiric nature.

Review: Based on Hideyuki Kikuchi’s novel, this OVA (Original Video Animation) represents the perfect fusion of horror and post-apocalyptic science fiction. Director Toyoo Ashida creates a desolate landscape where Gothic architecture stands alongside mutant creatures, reflecting the ecological and societal collapse of this far-future world.

What makes Vampire Hunter D stand out is its protagonist’s internal conflict—torn between human empathy and vampiric instincts, D embodies the struggle between civilization and barbarism. His left hand, which harbors a symbiotic face with its own personality, provides both comic relief and a physical manifestation of D’s divided nature.

Despite limited animation budgets, Ashida’s use of chiaroscuro lighting and detailed backgrounds creates a visual atmosphere that overcomes technical limitations. When I encountered this film on a late-night broadcast in the late ’80s, it was unlike anything I’d seen—animation that took horror seriously, treating its supernatural elements as metaphors for deeper human concerns.

The film’s U.S. release in 1992 introduced Western audiences to anime’s potential for horror storytelling, establishing a template for later vampire anime like Hellsing. While a 2000 sequel, Bloodlust, boasts superior animation, the original maintains a raw, atmospheric power that makes it the more compelling work. For fans of Gothic horror and post-apocalyptic worldbuilding, Vampire Hunter D remains essential viewing.

3. THE SECRET OF NIMH (1982)

Synopsis: After her son falls ill, widowed field mouse Mrs. Brisby seeks help from a colony of superintelligent rats who escaped from laboratory experiments. As she becomes entangled in the rats’ plans to leave their technological haven and live independently, Mrs. Brisby discovers secrets about her late husband’s connection to the rats and must find the courage to save her family.

Review: Don Bluth’s adaptation of Robert C. O’Brien’s novel Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH (name changed for legal reasons) demonstrates how animation can handle complex ethical dilemmas while remaining accessible to viewers of all ages. After leaving Disney, Bluth created a film that subverted children’s animation tropes by embracing darkness—both literally in its shadowy visuals and thematically in its exploration of mortality, scientific ethics, and courage.

The film’s animation quality remains stunning four decades later. Bluth’s team employed multiple layers of cel animation to create unusual depth of field, while the use of backlighting gives magical elements an ethereal glow. The Great Owl sequence, with its shifting shadows and gleaming eyes, remains one of animation’s most effective horror sequences.

Mrs. Brisby stands as one of animation’s most compelling protagonists—an ordinary mother forced into extraordinary circumstances, whose growth comes not from gaining magical powers but from finding inner strength. The rats’ dilemma—whether to continue benefiting from stolen human technology or forge a truly independent existence—adds moral complexity rarely seen in animation of its era.

Jerry Goldsmith’s haunting score enhances the film’s emotional impact, particularly during the moving of the Brisby home—a sequence that combines technical virtuosity with genuine emotional stakes. I first saw NIMH as a child and was simultaneously terrified and captivated; revisiting it as an adult, I’m impressed by how it respects young viewers’ intelligence while offering themes that resonate differently with adult audiences.

2. HEAVY METAL (1981)

Synopsis: Framed by the story of the malevolent Loc-Nar, a green orb embodying universal evil, this anthology weaves together tales of cosmic horror, eroticism, and dark fantasy. Segments include “Harry Canyon” (a noir-inspired futuristic taxi driver), “Den” (a nerdy teenager transformed into a muscular hero in a primitive world), and “B-17” (a World War II bomber haunted by zombie crewmen).

Review: Gerald Potterton’s adaptation of the adult comic magazine epitomizes the rebellious spirit of early ’80s animation. With its sex, violence, and rock soundtrack featuring Black Sabbath and Blue Öyster Cult, Heavy Metal deliberately positioned itself as the antithesis of Disney’s family-friendly approach, declaring that animation could be as provocative and uncompromising as any other medium.

The film’s production involved multiple animation studios working in parallel, resulting in stylistic diversity but somewhat uneven pacing. What unifies these segments is their unapologetic embrace of countercultural themes—from drug use to anti-authoritarianism—that resonated with the era’s rock ethos.

“Taarna,” the penultimate segment featuring a mute warrior woman seeking vengeance, represents the film’s visual and narrative high point. The beautiful, barren landscapes and elegant character design create a sequence that transcends the exploitation elements found elsewhere in the film.

Critics initially dismissed Heavy Metal as juvenile, which isn’t entirely unfair—parts of it certainly pander to adolescent male fantasies. Yet its willingness to break taboos and explore darkness helped legitimize adult animation in Western markets. I first encountered it at a midnight screening in college, where its blend of cosmic horror, dark humor, and progressive rock seemed designed to expand minds in more ways than one. For all its flaws, Heavy Metal remains an essential milestone in animation’s evolution beyond children’s entertainment.

1. AKIRA (1988)

Synopsis: In post-apocalyptic Neo-Tokyo 2019, teenage biker gang leader Shōtarō Kaneda watches his friend Tetsuo develop devastating telekinetic abilities following a motorcycle accident. As government agencies attempt to capture Tetsuo, whose powers grow increasingly unstable, Kaneda becomes involved with anti-government activists while trying to prevent both his friend’s self-destruction and another cataclysm like the one that destroyed old Tokyo.

Review: Katsuhiro Otomo’s adaptation of his own manga stands as the undisputed masterpiece of 1980s animation. Set in a dystopian Neo-Tokyo rebuilt after a mysterious explosion triggered World War III, Akira captures the anxieties of the late 20th century while offering a visceral exploration of power, corruption, and societal collapse.

The film’s technical achievements remain astonishing. With over 160,000 hand-painted cels, Akira set new standards for animation quality. The opening motorcycle chase through Neo-Tokyo’s neon-lit streets demonstrates an attention to detail that borders on obsessive—reflections on chrome, fabric that moves naturally, lighting that creates genuine atmosphere. Shōji Yamashiro’s soundtrack, blending traditional Indonesian gamelan with electronic motifs, creates an auditory landscape as immersive as the visuals.

What pushes Akira beyond technical brilliance is its thematic depth. Neo-Tokyo embodies sociologist Émile Durkheim’s concept of anomie—a state of normlessness arising from collapsed social structures. The government’s exploitation of psychic children reflects institutional failure, while the anarchic biker gangs and protests illustrate popular disillusionment. Tetsuo’s transformation from vulnerable outcast to godlike entity functions as both character study and metaphor for unchecked power.

I first saw Akira in 1989, when I was 12, and I was completely unprepared for its sensory and mind-scorching impact. Three decades and countless viewings later, it still reveals new layers of meaning. Its influence extends beyond animation, inspiring works like The Matrix and shaping cyberpunk aesthetics across media. For those of you seeking to understand how animation evolved into a medium capable of sophisticated adult storytelling, Akira remains the essential starting point—the film that irrevocably changed animation’s cultural position.

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These ten films represent animation’s evolution from children’s entertainment to sophisticated adult storytelling during a pivotal decade. From cyberpunk dystopias to surreal fantasies, they expanded the medium’s visual and narrative possibilities while reflecting the anxieties and cultural shifts of their time. Their legacy lives on in contemporary animation, an I for one am glad we had them. What would the world have been like without an Akira, a Heavy Metal, or a Fire & Ice?

I shudder to think.