The 35 Best '80s Horror Movies Ranked

The '80s were a boom time for horror. Two formats of video recorder (VHS and Betamax) duked it out, with VHS eventually winning due to being the cheaper format to license. The proliferation of this technology in the home meant that films had a market beyond cinemas for the first time, and rental stores cropped up worldwide. Direct-to-video became a valid way to release films, and a lot of people wanted to cash in on the growing horror craze. In addition, because it was now possible to record movies from their TVs, many eager youngsters cultivated an interest in horror by watching scary movies at home, freed from the age-based restrictions at theaters.

My childhood was one of regular video shop visits, marveling at the gory covers on cassettes in the horror section. The quality of the tapes varied wildly, but many still hold up today, and some of them now bona fide classics. Obviously, any list such as this is subjective, but there are a few entries that I'm genuinely sad missed the cut, even if just barely — especially "From Beyond."

Adjust your tracking, align your azimuth heads, and let's go...

There's a general rule of thumb that the appearance of actor Michael Ironside improves any film, and this certainly applies to the 1981 science fiction/horror flick "Scanners." Ironside plays the baddie in this tale of weaponized psychics in a setting that will be familiar to any fans of the works of Canadian auteur writer/director David Cronenberg — a reality parallel to ours, but one where technology or humanity has gone awry.

In his earlier works "Shivers" and "Rabid," Cronenberg dealt with his familiar themes of disease, but in "Scanners" (and "The Brood" from two years previous) he delves into the powers of the mind and those who would exploit them.

The plot is as ambitious as it is mind-blowing, which leads us neatly into the one famous moment that cemented this visceral and literate science fiction film's place in the horror hall of fame. The villainous Darryl Revok (Ironside) turns his particularly vicious telepathic talents against another psychic, causing his head to explode messily. The scene — achieved with a prosthetic full of burger remnants, latex, and wax shot at point-blank range with a shotgun — has gained notoriety, immortalized in countless animated GIFs. It's a gimmick in a film that doesn't need one, but also a prime example of practical effects work that still stands up today.

The cinematic equivalent of a monochromatic fever dream, this 1989 Japanese splatter-punk body horror is as contentious as they come. Critics will point out its paper-thin plot, ramshackle special effects, and over-the-top gore — and fans will proclaim those elements as exactly why they love it.

The vague plot follows our protagonist, The Salaryman (Tomorowo Taguchi) as he contracts a mysterious illness that causes him to slowly transform into a hideous bio-mechanical hybrid of flesh and metal. An encounter with a metal fetishist forces the two rusting reprobates into a deadly battle.

A minuscule budget and a do-it-yourself approach to the special effects give "Tetsuo: The Iron Man" a unique look, making it quite different from other horror movies. Sequels would up the budget and the quality of special effects — and the complexities in the storytelling — but this first low-budget horror, with its punk-rock ethos, remains the most fascinating entry of them all. "Akira" would tread similar territory in the same decade with its own metamorphosing and mutating Tetsuo to greater and more profitable effect. Still, there's no doubting the low-fi charm of this strange little film, and you'll never look at a junk pile in the same way again.

Before Alabamian actor Michael Rooker emerged as James Gunn's cinematic muse (appearing in "Slither" and various "Guardians of the Galaxy" films), he terrified audiences as the lead in John McNaughton's 1986 psychological horror "Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer."

Based on the story of real-life killer Henry Lee Lucas, this gritty movie follows Henry after his release from imprisonment for murdering his mother. Taking a job — appropriately — as an exterminator, he and a friend conduct a series of indiscriminate killings. From a decade in which movie murders were designed to be as novel as possible — with the bigger the body count, the better — "Henry" stands as a grimly realistic and sobering view of a mass murderer's mind.

Henry isn't a masked slasher or supernatural creature out for vengeance or killing for a misguided cause, but an anonymous psychopath who could blend into the crowd, and whose motives appear random. The movie is awkwardly voyeuristic at times, making us, the audience, feel guilty for watching Henry carry out his hideous crimes with a casualness that defies sense. It'd be a challenge to find a more nihilistic movie from the '80s, and it's pretty telling that it sat in post-production limbo for three years before becoming one of the first movies given the Motion Picture Association of America's new NC-17 rating.

Enjoying somewhat of a resurgence due to its recent appearance on the streaming channel Shudder, 1981's "Possession" was one of several films from the decade that found itself on the list of British "Video Nasties." Whereas many films found themselves on that notorious list through their extreme gore and that alone, "Possession" was also included for its sheer brutality and uncompromising view of domestic abuse. This far-from-comfortable watch charts the breakdown in the relationship between spy Mark (Sam Neill) and Anna (Isabelle Adjani), and follows her increasingly odd behavior after requesting a divorce. It flits through genres, beginning as a grim kitchen-sink divorce drama in the equally grim environs of West Germany before the fall of the Wall, yet ends up in Cronenberg-esque body-horror territory. Neill is never anything less than watchable in any of his roles and "Possession" is no exception. Still, it's Adjani who steals this movie — with one subway scene in particular memorable as a high point of horror cinema.

It's an oddly structured narrative that asks as many questions as it answers, and it's definitely not a film for everybody's taste — but if you like your horror challenging and ambiguous, there are few better examples in '80s cinema. I can guarantee you that it's like nothing you've ever seen — or will ever see.

"Poltergeist" is an odd beast. Tobe Hooper, who'd terrified the living snot out of us eight years earlier with "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre," directed this 1982 horror film, but it feels like a film straight out of the Spielberg playbook. Spielberg's influence as the tale's writer imprinted on every frame, and there's an argument — with no small irony in a film about a restless spirit — that Spielberg ghost-directed the movie. And it's easy to see how people came to believe that.

Hooper (or maybe Spielberg) lulls you into a false sense of security as the characters start witnessing odd activity in their new home (another example of '80s homeowners blissfully unaware of what lurks under the foundations of their building — although at least in this case we were spared the common trope of Indian burial ground). The titular poltergeist is initially playful, moving furniture around accompanied by a cheery Jerry Goldsmith score, as well as communicating with the family's young daughter through the static on a television set. ("They're heeeeere.")

There's a big rug pull to come, though, as the film suddenly descends into the macabre and cruel. There's a mirror scene involving face-peeling horror that would be considered over the top in a Cronenberg movie, and moments of terror you wouldn't expect in a film with such a mild rating; it was rated the equivalent of PG (Parental Guidance) in the UK, which seems laughable now given the film's haunting content.

A masterclass in atmosphere and tension that probably resulted in far fewer hitchhikers being picked up in the decade of its release, 1986's "The Hitcher" still stands out today for its memorably callous antagonist, Rutger Hauer's John Ryder. It's precisely the kind of role that the sadly missed Hauer was best known for.

When young Jim Halsey (C. Thomas Howell) stops for a hitchhiker, he has no idea of the events he sets in motion. He narrowly escapes with his life from this self-proclaimed psychopath, and the two of them fight to the death on the desert plains.

There are shades of Roy Batty, Hauer's "Blade Runner" character, in Hauer's oppressive antagonist, with both coming across as Aryan, idealized superhumans. Ironically, Ryder feels even less human than Roy Batty's replicant. It's a movie reminiscent of Spielberg's "Duel" from the decade previous, seeing innocents in the wrong place at the wrong time, tormented simply for their bad luck. Like the persistently aggressive Truck from Spielberg's feature, Ryder is an unstoppable force of nature, a villain with little nuance or subtlety, in a film as bleak as it is violent. "The Hitcher" was remade in 2007 with Sean Bean in the lead role, but even an actor of his gravitas couldn't salvage something that should have been left on the curbside, thumb permanently outstretched.

1987's "Evil Dead II" is a quirky one — it's not exactly a sequel to the original, more a bigger budget remake that's played slightly more for laughs than the 1981 classic. The impressively chinned Bruce Campbell returns as Ash Williams, once again getting himself involved with scary supernatural shenanigans in a secluded shack. The Book of the Dead — the Necronomicon, heavily featured in the first three "Evil Dead" movies — is once again responsible, as ancient texts naively read aloud reawaken the Deadites who dwell in the surrounding woods.

The slapstick quotient is heightened considerably from the first film, with Campbell's physical comedy prowess conjuring images of a Three Stooges one-person show. His exploits with a myriad of miniaturized mimics are a particular highlight, as is the scene with his possessed hand (with the severing of said limb being responsible for one of the few visual gags ever put to screen ... based on an Ernest Hemingway novel).

It's a visual riot, ending with a perfect set-up for "Army of Darkness," which arrived in theaters in 1992 (and thus can't be included on this list). Purists may not want to think too hard about how the conclusion of "Evil Dead II" doesn't quite match the start of the next installment, but that's pure nitpicking.

Frank Henenlotter has a rare directorial talent: the ability to cover every frame of celluloid with an intangible layer of grime. Across his limited yet illustrious career, New York has been as much a character in his films as any of the oddballs, eccentrics, or freaks he casts. "Basket Case" is as much a love letter to the Big Apple as anything made by Woody Allen, but concentrates on the city's rotten core: the seedy, sleazier side of the concrete metropolis.

"Basket Case" is a simple tale about a boy and his deformed mutant brother, but it's the humans in the film who are the real monsters. It's a tale that'll stick in your brain long after you've finished showering to try and wash the grubbiness away. Some of its effects are risible — a stop-motion scene with monstrous brother Belial trashing a hotel room is more about the "stop" than the "motion" — but, as with the rest of Henenlotter's work, there's a certain charm.

Henenlotter inspired a whole bunch of other filmmakers, notably Joe Begos ("Bliss" and "VFW") and Harrison Smith ("The Special"), proving that exploitation is alive and well. The "Basket Case" sequels veer more towards black comedy and away from horror, but are never less than watchable.

A rare piece of stealth-horror, this one, sneaking from the video store shelf into many homes thanks to the cute furry Mogwai on the cover. It'd be a little while before its true nature became apparent: "Gremlins" is  a Tex Avery cartoon given lizard flesh, a violent, blood-spattered tale of evil little skittering demonic creatures. My nervous mother (who'd subsequently tried to warn me away from "Rosemary's Baby," calling it the "scariest movie ever") never quite forgave me.

At its heart, "Gremlins" is a movie-length cautionary tale, a reminder to always follow instructions. The gremlins and their leader, Stripe, are the yin to the cute Mogwai Gizmo's yang, wreaking havoc amongst the deserving and undeserving alike. The gremlins themselves are a force of nature, dispatched in a variety of grisly ways that'll delight the childish-at-heart and sicken people ;ole my dear-departed mum. It's manic, playful, and buzzing with a sugar-rush energy rarely found outside of Saturday morning cartoons, but there's a hint of the darkest elements of Grimm just lurking under the surface — Phoebe Cates' saddest Christmas story of all time is testament to that.

"Gremlins" is a film that gets away with a lot due to the violence being cartoonish and over-the-top, but that doesn't stop it being as worthy an entry as anything on this list.

"The Blob" is just one of several remakes on this list, all of which follow the same principle; do it bigger and better. The Steve McQueen original is a well-regarded, cheesy science-fiction B-movie with a novel and original antagonist. The remake is a brilliant piece of '80s body horror that time seems to be doing its darned best to forget.

Like Tom Savini's excellent remake of "Night of the Living Dead," the remake plays with the ideas of the original while subverting them for a modern audience. The jock that the film seems to be setting up to be the lead dies (horribly) in the first act, writer Frank Darabont and director Chuck Russell seem to have missed the bit in the Hollywood scriptwriter's handbook that says, "Don't kill any kids," and it all fits neatly with the '80s' obsession with conspiracies — "It was the Government what did it."

"The Blob" also sets itself up neatly for a sequel that would never come, the film getting lost amongst a heaving morass of summer releases. Still, it's great fun with some truly memorable gross-out moments, and, aside from some dated back projection work, still stands up well.

Thanks to "An American Werewolf in London" there are a whole plethora of songs with "Moon" in the title that will trigger a Pavlov-conditioned response among a certain generation of horror fans, evoking imagery of violent transformations, unwelcoming taverns, and Jenny Agutter in a shower.

For a director with a rich heritage in comedy, "An American Werewolf in London" fits neatly into John Landis' filmography. It's a horror movie with a bloated, black comedic heart, elevating itself above its lupine peers from the same decade (namely, "The Howling" and its sequels). For an audience expecting the werewolf transformation to consist of the lead actor having more fur glued to his face before he appears from behind a piece of furniture, Rick Baker's moonlight change from David to lycanthrope was a revelation. This was no elegant metamorphosis from wolf to man, but an agonizing and brutal act in which bones rearranged themselves and skin stretched to the point of tearing open.

Effects aside, "An American Werewolf in London" is horror with genuine depth, faithful to the werewolf tradition, but with a modern slant. A risible sequel emerged from the moors nearly two decades later, but with none of the charm or humor of this horror classic.

Any list of the top 20 horror movies of the '60s wouldn't be complete without "Night of the Living Dead," and to leave "Dawn of the Dead" out of a '70s chart would be verging on illegal. Similarly, "Day of the Dead" rightfully deserves a position here. Romero would ensure that the increasingly inaccurately titled "Trilogy of the Dead" would receive more entries in the next century, but none stand up to the original three.

The "Day of the Dead" trailer alone was enough to terrify audiences, an early example of a jump scare taken from the opening scene. As the (supposed) final entry in the trilogy, it portrays a group of survivors who may be the last remnants of mankind, hunkered together in an underground bunker. The last stragglers of a military operation which should have been long abandoned, it's a claustrophobic character study of confinement, as well as an excuse for some truly memorable and horrific effects work from Romero's long-time collaborator, Tom Savini.

Captain Rhodes' soldiers are just as terrifying as any of the undead, and it's the conflict between them and the civilian scientists that make for a tense and brutal showdown. The three surviving leads (Lori Cardille, Jarlath Conroy, and Terry Alexander) recently appeared together in intriguing photographs hinting at a return for the characters in an unofficial sequel to "Day of the Dead," nearly four decades later.

Jeffrey Combs is a little like Michael Ironside in that both men elevate any material that they're in; even the dullest of films is enlivened by Jeffrey's manic presence, and there's no better vehicle for him than Stuart Gordon's "Re-Animator." There's a reason the actor's filmography is as long as your freshly severed arm, and this movie would have been many audience members' first experience of him.

Loosely based on the H.P. Lovecraft story of (nearly) the same name, "Re-Animator" sees a perfectly cast Combs play a medical student fixated on reanimating the dead. He's obsessed to the point of madness, channeling Colin Clive as Doctor Frankenstein in the James Whale classic.

Like many films in this list, "Re-Animator" is another horror comedy from a decade in which they positively thrived. Adding a rich vein of humor to your movie was a common delivery mechanism for conjuring up increasingly outlandish special effects and gore, and "Re-Animator" is a blood-spattered rollercoaster ride. The plot is as lurid as the bright luminous green of the re-animation serum, all reanimated heads and monstrous resurrected chimeras, only to fall into dark farce as West's ill-fated plans go awry.

Another remake on this list that's better than the original, "The Fly" is auteur David Cronenberg operating at his very peak with arguably one of his most mainstream films to date. The story — a surprisingly close adaption of the 1958 movie — is a perfect vehicle for the director's fascination with the degeneration of the human body, disease, mutation, and entropy.

In a movie about two disparate entities fused together in an accident, "The Fly" is also a hybrid: a tale of both doomed love and graphic body horror. What begins as a convincing romance between Veronica and Jeff Goldblum's eccentric yet charming scientist, Seth Brundle, mutates into something far darker. Released during the height of the AIDS epidemic, hindsight gives it a particular relevance, 

It's difficult to discuss the movie without it falling into glorious fawning appreciation over the incredible effects. A mixture of state-of-the-art prosthetics and animatronic work, Brundle's degradation from man to insect is as wonderfully realized as it is heartbreaking. Whereas the original saw the scientist separated into two distinct entities (making for a truly memorable ending), Cronenberg sees them fused into one, an amalgam with a similarly doomed fate.

If a horror movie could be said to only be as good as its villains, there's a reason that "Near Dark" makes this list while films like "The Lost Boys" and "Fright Night" don't make the grade. Jesse Hooker and his miscreant gang of fanged fanatics would wipe the floor with Jerry Dandridge, along with David and his hair-metal kin.

Hooker's gang are no preening 20-somethings whose excessive hairspray would cause them to go up like kindling if exposed to flame, nor are they smooth-talking, overly confident seducers. They're predators at top of the food chain, and vampires have rarely appeared as threatening or as menacing as they do here.

"Near Dark" is a vampire western, albeit one where the "V" word is never mentioned. It's also another wonderful pairing between Lance Henriksen and the sadly missed Bill Paxton, the only two actors to be killed by a Predator, Terminator, and Xenomorph. It's a wonderfully confident solo directorial debut by Kathryn Bigelow, who plays with the conventions of the genre conventions and has the chutzpah to stage the final conflict between hero Caleb (Adrian Pasdar) and Severen (Paxton) in a street, "High Noon" style. It's a beautifully lean movie as well, and never outstays its welcome.

It's weird to think now, given that by law it must now appear on most top 10 film lists, that "The Thing" was a flop on release. It barely made its budget back and was mauled in the press. The ambiguous ending was derided, and it was labelled by critics and audiences alike as "stupid", "nihilistic" and "boring."

But "The Thing" is a masterpiece in both horror and tension, back from when Carpenter was at the absolute top of his game. Easily as much a siege movie as his earlier "Assault on Precinct 13," "The Thing" traps its distinct and identifiable cast in the middle of nowhere — Antarctica — and then throws a distinctly slimy spanner in the works.

When "The Thing" was made, aliens in science fiction films were still mostly men in rubber suits, something that even Howard Hawks' original "The Thing from Another World" was guilty of. In Carpenter's cover version — and, to some extent, the Xenomorph in Ridley Scott's 1979 classic "Alien" — we were given an alien that was truly that: alien. With a motive as vague as its nebulous appearance, we were presented with a truly remarkable adversary. We're also lucky enough to see how it would have fared with CGI rather than practical effects in the identically titled prequel from 2011; the new version is by far the lesser film for it.

A convoluted origin, this: "Little Shop of Horrors" is based on a 1982 stage musical which, in turn, was based on a 1960 Roger Corman horror comedy. It's inclusion on this list is a reminder that horror doesn't necessarily need to be about scares and gore. It can be fun. A brutal premise (an innocent man, corrupted by thoughts of fame and power, feeds human flesh to a ravenous meat-eating plant) is executed with humor and panache, all to a wonderful soundtrack of crowd-pleasing songs, most of them show-stoppers.

With animatronic puppet work to rival anything in "The Thing," "Little Shop of Horrors" is a visual delight too, and one of the few items on this list that remains (essentially) family friendly. As evidenced by the work of Roald Dahl, kids love the macabre, so consider "Little Shop of Horrors" their gateway drug to greater and darker pleasures later in life.

In an interesting coda, the original ending was considerably more downbeat, seeing giant kaiju-scale rampaging plant creatures destroying New York and, inevitably, the world (all to the accompaniment of "Don't Feed the Plants," one of the film's best songs). The actual ending to the movie is more upbeat (with a slightly hackneyed and predictable twist), so I happily consider the darker finale to be the proper ending.