Roger Kastel's shark-and-swimmer poster makes suspense a question of scale. A tiny swimmer crosses the calm surface while a vast open mouth rises straight towards her from below. We can see the danger she cannot: one vertical composition creates the whole relationship between predator, victim and audience. Start here for a brilliantly legible example of an image telling a story before you read its title.

In Saul Bass's orange spiral design, a falling black figure and an outlined woman seem caught in a vortex. Follow the white lines inward and the poster makes your eye perform the instability it advertises. The different treatment of the two figures also suggests an uneasy relationship between a person and an elusive image. A rewarding study in turning a psychological state into graphic form.

Look for Vasilis Marmatakis's white-background poster of Colin Farrell embracing a partner whose body has been removed. His arms still describe a relationship, but blank space occupies its centre. That visual absence makes loneliness and the pressure to be coupled visible at once. It is especially useful for anyone exploring negative space: the missing figure carries as much meaning as the photographed one.

The original cracked-egg design offers a birth that feels like a threat. An isolated egg leaks green light into near-total darkness, with no reassuring human figure to establish scale or safety. It promises something emerging while refusing to show what. Study how the surrounding black space makes a small rupture feel enormous; the mystery does the selling without a monster portrait.

Seek out Saul Bass's original segmented-body poster, distinct from the portrait-led artwork also used for this film. Detached black shapes make the title's 'anatomy' literal, while suggesting a case broken into pieces for examination. The rough silhouette establishes both the crime and the process of interpreting it. Compare its stark economy with the film's more conventional star-led advertising: the symbolic version leaves much more for your eye to assemble.

Dawn Baillie's pale Jodie Foster portrait places a moth across the mouth, turning an ordinary publicity close-up into an image of obstructed speech. The insect's skull-like detail adds a second, smaller encounter with mortality. Your eye moves from the direct stare to the covered lips and then into that hidden image. Seek out this original portrait design for a lesson in building unease through one precise intervention.

AllCity's concentric-circle design places a solitary astronaut against a field of repeated rings. The pattern can read as a lunar disc, a target or a system with a person trapped inside it. Those competing readings suit a film about isolation and uncertain identity without explaining its revelations. Spend a moment switching between the figure and the geometry: repetition becomes the source of discomfort.

From a distance, the mosaic poster gives you Jim Carrey's smiling face; up close, it breaks into hundreds of smaller pictures. Designed by Bryan Allen and executed by photomosaic creator Robert Silvers, it turns a man's identity into an assembled screen image. That shift between person and manufactured picture neatly expresses the film's premise. A particularly satisfying example to study at two distances, with each view changing what the other means.