The 10 Best Movies of 1987 (Ranked)

Shot through a gossamer stocking filter by legendary cinematographer Henri Alekan, Wim Wenders crafts an existential hymn to the tactile sensory joys of mere mortal existence. Bruno Ganz radiates boundless empathy as Damiel, an immortal angel who wanders divided Berlin eavesdropping on human inner monologues before renouncing eternity for human touch, cold coffee, and the pain of bleeding. Its gliding camerawork and poetic script from Peter Handke transform post-war trauma into transcendent secular grace. In an era dominated by neon consumerism and high-concept action, Wenders’ arthouse triumph stands as the definitive peak of 1987, reminding audiences that cinema could still capture the metaphysical ache of the human condition.

Stanley Kubrick dissects the industrial machinery of war with clinical precision, splitting his narrative into two distinct, unsparing movements. The opening Parris Island crucible—anchored by R. Lee Ermey’s unhinged, improvised drill instructor fury and Vincent D'Onofrio’s harrowing psychological disintegration—remains one of the most terrifying depictions of military indoctrination ever filmed. When the action shifts to the ruinous urban skirmishes of the Tet Offensive, Kubrick strips combat of any lingering Hollywood romanticism, framing war as an absurd, self-inflicted slaughterhouse. Arriving alongside a glut of reflective Vietnam War projects, Kubrick’s cold detachment sliced through nostalgic sentiment, securing its place as an indelible monument of 1987’s political and stylistic daring.

Paul Verhoeven brought razor-sharp European satire to the American studio system, fashioning an ultraviolent science-fiction actioner that doubled as a scathing takedown of Reaganomics, corporate greed, and militarized policing. Peter Weller delivers physical genius beneath tons of fiberglass and steel, communicating profound tragedy with only his jawline and robotic cadence as resurrected officer Alex Murphy. Verhoeven punctuates the gruesome kinetic set pieces with blistering faux television commercials and corporate boardroom massacres that feel prophetically modern. Rather than settling for cheap exploitation, this subversive powerhouse captured 1987’s cultural anxieties about urban collapse and privatized capitalism better than nearly any high-minded prestige drama of its generation.

Rob Reiner and screenwriter William Goldman pulled off a miracle of comedic tone, skewering fairytale archetypes while wholly honoring their romantic grandeur. Balancing swashbuckling adventure with dry, self-aware wit, the script sparkles with quotable dialogue delivered by an impeccably calibrated ensemble, from Cary Elwes’s rakish charisma to Mandy Patinkin’s fierce, vengeance-seeking swordsman. Mark Knopfler’s lilting acoustic score and Reiner’s brisk pacing give the narrative an effortless, buoyant storybook charm that never slips into cynical parody. Released during a banner year for fantasy and family cinema, it transcended an indifferent initial box office run to become one of 1987’s most treasured cultural touchstones.

Sam Raimi reinvented low-budget horror by violently colliding graphic splatter with the physical slapstick of Buster Keaton and The Three Stooges. Bruce Campbell delivers a manic, sweat-drenched performance as Ash Williams, surviving a relentless barrage of possessed hands, cackling deer heads, and gallons of rainbow-hued gore. Raimi’s hyperactive camera maneuvers—sprinting through cabin corridors, twisting on Dutch angles, and soaring through the woods—display an exhilarating technical bravura unmatched in independent cinema. In a year where conventional studio horror sequels had grown stale, this kinetic burst of cartoonish carnage revitalized the genre and solidified 1987 as a boundary-pushing playground for audacious midnight movies.

Brian De Palma marries operatic melodrama with Old Hollywood gangster mythology, staging this 1930s prohibition saga with ferocious visual elegance. David Mamet’s crisp, profane screenplay gives Kevin Costner’s naive Elliot Ness and Sean Connery’s streetwise beat cop Jimmy Malone a muscular moral clarity, while Ennio Morricone’s soaring score amplifies every gunfight into mythic tragedy. De Palma’s command of widescreen composition—culminating in the legendary Odessa Steps baby carriage shootout at Chicago’s Union Station—proves pure formalist virtuosity. The film cut through 1987’s blockbuster landscape by demonstrating how classic genre tropes could be revitalized into prestige studio entertainment without sacrificing visceral suspense or historical grandeur.

What begins as an archetype of macho 1980s military fantasy systematically unravels into a jungle survival nightmare under John McTiernan’s razor-sharp direction. Arnold Schwarzenegger and an absurdly muscular ensemble swagger into a covert Latin American rescue mission, only to find their heavy firepower completely useless against an invisible, trophy-hunting extraterrestrial. Stan Winston’s iconic creature design combined with McTiernan’s masterclass in spatial tension and pacing turns raw action machismo on its head. Landing at the peak of the decade’s hyper-masculine cinema, it subverted the very military power fantasies Hollywood was selling in 1987, creating an enduring sci-fi classic that ruthlessly deconstructs its own brawn.

Barry Levinson’s dramedy provided Robin Williams with the definitive platform to unleash his manic, unscripted improvisational genius, earning him an Academy Award nomination. Williams plays Armed Forces Radio DJ Adrian Cronauer, whose rapid-fire rock-and-roll broadcasts energize exhausted troops while infuriating conservative military brass. Beneath the explosive vocal pyrotechnics and stand-up riffs lies a sober, sensitive portrait of Saigon on the brink of catastrophic escalation, exploring the moral friction between military censorship and genuine human connection. As Hollywood continued to re-examine the Vietnam conflict in 1987, Levinson’s film stood out by finding unexpected pathos in laughter, anchoring a deeply fractured national memory in Williams' kinetic humanity.

Richard Donner established the gold standard for the modern buddy-cop dynamic by balancing gritty urban crime with genuine psychological trauma. Shane Black’s sharp-edged screenplay pairs Danny Glover’s weary, family-grounded veteran with Mel Gibson’s suicidal, volatile narcotics detective, generating volatile chemistry that feels earned rather than formulaic. Donner’s tactile, practical action sequences and Michael Kamen’s sultry saxophone-and-guitar score inject real stakes into Los Angeles’ neon-lit underworld. While dozens of imitators flooded multiplexes in subsequent years, this 1987 original separated itself through raw character investment, cementing an archetype that would define studio action filmmaking for the next two decades.

Emile Ardolino’s coming-of-age romance transcends its breezy summer camp setting by anchoring its nostalgic rhythms in authentic class conflict and female agency. Jennifer Grey’s sheltered teenager Frances Houseman discovers personal identity and sensual liberation through working-class dance instructor Johnny Castle, played with magnetic, coiled grace by Patrick Swayze. Behind the irresistible soundtrack and celebrated choreography, Eleanor Bergstein’s script quietly explores back-alley abortion and social stratifications with genuine empathy and bite. While lighter than its dramatic peers, the film captured 1987's commercial pulse, proving that earnest, mid-budget romantic melodrama could ignite the box office and leave an indelible imprint on pop culture history.