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Two tiny figures tumble into a red-and-blue spiral: the design makes obsession and vertigo felt before either needs explaining. A remarkably economical image for a film about being drawn into someone else’s past.
Saul Bass reduces a courtroom murder to a red field and a black, disjointed body. The cut-up silhouette is both a visual pun on the title and a sharp hint that the case will not fit neatly together.
A tiny swimmer and an enormous shark share a vertical line of approach. The scale does the storytelling: the danger is already rising towards a person who has no idea how close it is.
The poised leg, the seated Benjamin and the frame’s awkward distance make this a compact sketch of attraction, uncertainty and social unease. It tells you the tone without pretending the romance is straightforward.
A lone, cracked egg glows in a field of black. The sparse image makes the threat feel biological and unknowable; the empty space is doing as much work as the object.
The moth across Clarice’s mouth turns a face into a riddle, while the skull-like pattern on its back quietly darkens the image. It sells a psychological contest through one unsettling emblem rather than a crowd of characters.
Saul Bass’s jagged arm, built from broken black shapes, gives addiction a blunt, physical presence. It looks less like a portrait than a warning sign, which is exactly the point.
A baby carriage, a shadowed figure and a restricted palette turn an everyday object into a source of dread. The poster lets innocence and menace occupy the same small patch of space.
A glowing finger reaches towards a starry fingertip; one simple gesture bridges the human and the extraterrestrial. The image makes connection, not spectacle, the film’s central promise.
Marty steps out of a car into a flare of light, checking his watch as if time itself has caught him in the act. The poster turns the time-travel premise into a single, readable moment of arrival.
A faceless figure in a blinding burst of light makes the poster’s central question visual: is this a person, or something wearing one? The snowbound emptiness around it gives the mystery nowhere to hide.
A small, isolated Travis sits inside a grid of lurid city lights. The design makes the city feel both overwhelming and strangely empty, a neat visual shorthand for a man adrift in it.
A giant ape clutching a woman above a city skyline turns the film’s scale and peril into a single, instantly legible image. The poster makes the contrast between spectacle and vulnerability its whole story.
The missing-person notice aesthetic makes the poster feel like evidence from the story’s world, not a conventional invitation to a film. Its rough, documentary-like presentation is the entire trick—and the premise—in miniature.
Jim Carrey’s face assembled from tiny broadcast images hints that a public personality is made from the world watching him. The poster makes the film’s constructed reality visible before it asks you to question it.
The poster’s stylised portrait and cut-up lettering make a polished façade feel faintly unstable. Its fractured look suits a mystery in which the apparent surface of Los Angeles conceals the real story.
The rocket lodged in the moon’s eye compresses a whole fantastical expedition into one striking image. It is an early, wonderfully direct example of a poster promising a story through a visual that could only belong to this film.
Expressionist angles and distorted forms make the poster’s world feel psychologically bent before the film begins. Rather than illustrate a particular event, the design gives the viewer the visual grammar of a nightmare.
The poster’s bold, tilted lettering and shadowy figure give the mystery a crooked, off-balance feel. It suggests a city of half-seen people and uncertain loyalties without spelling out who can be trusted.
A solitary priest beneath a streetlamp, swallowed by darkness, makes faith look like a journey towards something terrible. The image is spare enough that the small pool of light becomes the story.
