If you saw it as a kid in the eighties, it probably broke your brain. Most people remember the poster first—that iconic image of Taarna, the white-haired warrior, straddling a giant bird against a cosmic backdrop. It promised something the Disney-saturated market of 1981 didn't dare touch. It was loud. It was filthy. It was spectacular.
The animated movie Heavy Metal isn't just a film; it’s a chaotic time capsule of an era when animation was finally trying to grow up, even if that meant acting like a hormonal teenager. Produced by Ivan Reitman—yes, the Ghostbusters guy—and directed by Gerald Potterton, it was an anthology experiment that shouldn't have worked. Honestly, looking back, it's a miracle it even got finished.
The Loc-Nar and the Chaos of Anthology Storytelling
The glue holding this whole mess together is the Loc-Nar. It’s a glowing green orb that claims to be the "sum of all evils." It spends the movie terrorizing a young girl by showing her various stories across time and space, which is basically just a clever excuse to jump between wildly different art styles and genres.
You’ve got "Soft Landing," which is basically a space-bound Jeep driving sequence. Then there’s "Harry Canyon," a gritty, noir-soaked vision of a future New York that feels like Blade Runner if it were drawn by someone who hadn't slept in three days. The shift in quality and tone between these segments is jarring. That’s because Reitman outsourced the chapters to different animation houses across the globe. It wasn't one vision; it was a dozen visions fighting for airtime.
Some parts, like "Den," based on Richard Corben’s work, have this strangely soft, airbrushed look that feels like a 1970s van mural come to life. John Candy voices the lead, a nerdy kid who gets transported to a fantasy world where he’s suddenly a massive, muscular hero. It’s pure wish fulfillment, draped in the kind of gratuitous nudity that made parents in 1981 lose their minds.
Why the Soundtrack Is Actually the Main Character
You can't talk about the animated movie Heavy Metal without talking about the music. It’s arguably more famous than the movie itself. We’re talking Blue Öyster Cult, Black Sabbath, Cheap Trick, Sammy Hagar, and Devo.
The licensing for these songs was such a legal nightmare that it actually kept the movie off home video for years. Throughout the 80s and early 90s, if you wanted to see it, you had to catch a midnight screening or find a bootleg. It wasn't until 1996 that the rights were finally cleared for a VHS and DVD release.
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The Legal Limbo
Imagine a movie being "lost" simply because you couldn't pay enough people for a three-minute guitar solo. That was the reality. When it finally hit shelves in the mid-90s, it sparked a massive resurgence. It turns out, an entire generation of stoners and sci-fi geeks had been waiting fifteen years to own a copy of the "B-17" sequence, where undead pilots terrorize a cockpit to the sounds of Don Felder's "Heavy Metal (Takin' a Ride)."
The Taarna Factor and the Legacy of "Abe"
The final segment, "Taarna," is where the movie finds its soul. It’s silent, or nearly so. It relies on visual storytelling and a sweeping orchestral score by Elmer Bernstein. Taarna is a Taarakian, a warrior race sworn to protect the innocent, and her battle against the mutated barbarians is genuinely beautiful.
This segment used rotoscoping—the process of tracing over live-action footage—to give her movements a fluid, eerie realism. If you think she looks familiar, it’s probably because her DNA is all over modern pop culture. Without Taarna, we don't get some of the more stylized heroines in modern gaming or adult-swim-style animation.
But it wasn't all high art. "Captain Sternn," based on Bernie Wrightson’s character, is a hilarious takedown of a galactic criminal who is "innocent" only in his own mind. The humor is mean, the violence is slapstick, and it provides a necessary break from the heavier, more psychedelic segments.
What Most People Get Wrong About the Production
There’s a common myth that the movie was a massive flop. It wasn't. It actually did decent business, pulling in about $20 million on a $9 million budget. The problem was the reputation. Critics loathed it. They saw it as puerile and disjointed. Janet Maslin of The New York Times basically called it a loud, messy bore.
But they missed the point. Heavy Metal wasn't trying to be Citizen Kane. It was trying to be the magazine it was named after.
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The Heavy Metal magazine, which started in 1977 as the American version of the French Métal Hurlant, was all about pushing boundaries. It brought European artists like Moebius (Jean Giraud) and Enki Bilal to a US audience. The movie tried to capture that "anything goes" spirit. Sometimes it failed—some of the jokes in the "So Beautiful and So Dangerous" segment haven't aged particularly well—but the ambition is undeniable.
The Failed Sequel and the Ghost of David Fincher
In 2000, we got Heavy Metal 2000. It wasn't great. It lacked the anthology charm and felt more like a generic direct-to-video action flick.
Then, for years, rumors swirled that David Fincher and James Cameron were going to produce a high-budget reboot. They wanted to bring in directors like Zack Snyder and Gore Verbinski to handle different segments. It was a dream project that eventually died in development hell because no major studio wanted to back an R-rated animated anthology.
However, that failure eventually birthed Love, Death & Robots on Netflix. Tim Miller, who worked on the Heavy Metal reboot ideas with Fincher, eventually pivoted the concept into the anthology series we have today. If you love the bite-sized, experimental sci-fi of LD&R, you owe a massive debt to the 1981 original.
The Lasting Impact on Animation
We live in a world where adult animation is everywhere. From Rick and Morty to Primal, the idea that cartoons are just for kids is dead. But in 1981, that idea was a radical act of rebellion.
The animated movie Heavy Metal proved there was an audience for "mature" themes, even if those themes were mostly just leather, lasers, and loud guitars. It showed that animation could be used for horror, noir, and epic fantasy all in the same ninety-minute window.
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It’s messy. It’s sexist in parts. It’s confusing. But it’s also undeniably alive.
How to Appreciate It Today
If you’re going back to watch it now, don't expect a tight narrative. You have to treat it like a visual album. Turn the lights down, crank the speakers, and just let the art wash over you.
- Watch the "B-17" segment for the pure atmospheric horror. It remains the most effective short in the film.
- Look for the "Easter eggs"—the movie is packed with references to the original magazine artists.
- Compare the styles. Notice how the "Harry Canyon" segment uses color to tell a story compared to the muted, desert palette of "Taarna."
The influence of this film is everywhere, from the aesthetic of The Fifth Element to the music videos of the early MTV era. It remains a polarizing, loud, and weirdly beautiful piece of cinema that refused to play by anyone's rules.
To truly understand the history of adult animation, you have to start here. Get the 4K restoration if you can; the colors in the Loc-Nar sequences are finally as vibrant as the creators intended. Dig into the making-of documentaries that detail the grueling 24-hour shifts the animators took to meet the deadline. Most importantly, listen to that soundtrack. It’s the pulse of a subculture that refuses to go quiet.
Start by tracking down the 1981 original over any of the sequels or spin-offs. Focus on the Gerald Potterton-directed segments first to see the peak of that era's hand-drawn craftsmanship. If you find the anthology format jarring, try watching it one story at a time, treating each as a standalone short film rather than a cohesive feature. This allows the individual artistry of the different animation houses to shine without the Loc-Nar framing device feeling like a distraction.