I still remember the first time I watched my old VHS copy of The Terminator, picked up from a flea market and nearly falling apart when I bought it. There were moments when I could’ve sworn I was watching something digitally enhanced—like that opening scene where a woman walks past police vehicles. Then it hit me: there was no digital magic in the 1980s.
Everything in The Terminator came from people sweating over practical effects. Even now, today’s filmmakers often point to those old-school creators as their biggest inspirations—probably because that generation represented the greatest collection of talented artists, craftsmen, and eccentric geniuses this side of Star Wars. Let’s be honest—if you tried making a film back then with just average-person equipment, you’d never match something like The Terminator.
But what your homemade movie lacked in polish, it made up for with twice the heart. Why the Practical and Digital Effects Divide Still Matters
I find myself talking about what’s happened to movie magic’s natural evolution a lot these days. I’ll admit CGI has its place.
Nobody’s suggesting we use puppets to create entire galaxies or creatures that could never look realistic with practical methods. Yet there’s something about those older films that keeps pulling me back. It boils down to “reality.” The show really did have to go on—literally.
Think about the original Star Wars trilogy with those space battles created using carefully moved miniatures. Do they feel any less real than the computer-generated dogfights in the prequels? Put them side by side, and I bet most people would say the practical effects win hands down.
Don’t believe me? The Workmanship of Famous 1980s Effects
There’s this moment in Blade Runner I always return to when trying to understand the craftsmanship behind not just this film but so many others from that time. You can’t just admire how the finished product looks—you need to appreciate the work that went into it, to truly value what artists accomplished before CGI became common, let alone as seamless as it is now.
The streets of future Los Angeles shown as a nightmarish, neon-lit maze? That’s impressive visual magic. But that’s not even why Blade Runner stays with you for so long.
What makes you come back is seeing how thoroughly they built that world, with all the small details that make it feel lived-in. Ridley Scott, his cinematographer Jordan Cronenweth, and visual effects supervisor Douglas Trumbull imagined a run-down futuristic city in 1982, worn and decaying, and they made you believe it existed. Puppetry and animatronics bring characters to life in ways computers can’t match.
Take E.T.—a movie that needed a believable alien to work. What makes E.T. connect with audiences isn’t just the story or happy ending.
It’s how the creature feels genuinely alive. When you see E.T. hiding among stuffed animals or reaching out with his glowing finger, you forget he’s being controlled by puppeteers.
His movements aren’t perfect, but those imperfections make him more real than any computer-generated alien. I remember visiting a museum where they displayed the original E.T. animatronic with all its wires and mechanics exposed.
I’d always thought E.T. was CGI, not knowing at the time how limited early computer effects were. Seeing that mechanical puppet made me realize the life E.T.
had on screen came from people painstakingly moving each mechanical part in sync—making something artificial seem so alive is no small feat for any non-live-action medium. Model-Making and Miniatures: Hand-Built Worlds
Can we talk about movie magic without mentioning practical effects? Impossible, especially considering the incredible model work in Star Wars and Star Trek.
These were actually small-scale models from a time when filmmakers couldn’t rely on computers. The space battles weren’t just filmed by talented crews—they were created by art departments that painted models and countless miniatures to look battle-worn and genuine, as authentic as the full-size models used in WWII and naval films. That iconic trench run in A New Hope?
Today someone would just generate it on a computer. Back then, they built an actual miniature trench and moved a camera through it to create the illusion of X-wings flying. Watch it again and you can almost feel the excitement of the Industrial Light and Magic team as they worked out the dogfight choreography, using World War II airplane footage as inspiration for that tightly directed climax.
My friends and I have argued many times that nothing modern gives you the same adrenaline rush and emotional payoff as that sequence. The Enchantment of Stop-Motion Effects
Ray Harryhausen defined stop-motion animation for me long before I knew his name. Born in 1920 and passing in 2013, he created magic in movies like The 7th Voyage of Sinbad, Jason and the Argonauts, and Clash of the Titans during the 60s and 70s.
Though he had assistants, Harryhausen often worked alone for days or weeks in dark rooms making single scenes work, breathing life into his creatures. The skeleton warriors in Clash of the Titans might be my earliest memory of seeing his work. My teenage self once tried making a stop-motion dinosaur film using a borrowed Super 8 camera.
I set up my own little effects studio and made clay figures, then tried bringing them to life using techniques I’d seen in those old Sinbad movies. Looking at my attempts now, I’m caught between pride and embarrassment that these effects were once cutting-edge. But I’m still amazed because every frame represented hours of human effort.
Practical effects gave filmmakers another creative avenue—a chance to solve problems using whatever they had available. That innovation, that pushing of limits with miniatures and puppets, gave 80s sci-fi its special quality and heart. It’s an approach we could stand to revisit even as we continue using computer effects.
Why Effects That Are More Than Just Pixels Still Count in the Digital Era
I often rewatch those sci-fi classics trying to understand what makes them feel so different from modern blockbusters. My answer now? Their imperfections.
Practical effects are inherently flawed, but those flaws help create the illusion that what’s happening on screen shares our physical reality. That feeling of substance can’t be matched by any amount of rendering power or texture mapping. Look at The Terminator.
Watching Arnold Schwarzenegger’s character reveal the metal endoskeleton beneath his human skin is as unsettling today as it was in 1984. That’s because the endoskeleton feels physically real—and therefore more threatening—than anything similar in today’s digital-heavy productions. In The Terminator, the monster has a real-world presence most modern movie creatures simply lack.
It’s not just about the impact of these films, but what those impacts represent. For many of us raised on VHS after-school specials and movie marathons, these films are like time capsules, similar to what ancient civilizations carved into cave walls. The late 70s and early 80s showcased directors’ wild imaginations and the pure joy of practical effects.
And since effects should do more than just tell stories visually, I remember laughing with friends at the ridiculous moments in films like Space Mutiny. That movie had continuity errors for the ages, but somehow embodied sci-fi’s willingness to embrace a bit of silliness. This warmth keeps drawing me back to classic films.
There’s something about flickering lights on model spaceships, rubbery alien textures, and people in suits moving in strange ways that feels more real and more human. And it’s not my imagination. These effects might not be “practical” in the literal sense, but creators like George Pal made their imaginary worlds visually consistent—”selling it,” as my friend Robert Von Rospach once wrote in a letter.
Even if I don’t consciously notice that “practical coherence,” I feel it deep down every time I open my partner’s massive video collection and play one of those old movies. I don’t hate CGI—I appreciate what it accomplishes. Films like Avatar and Gravity are incredible CGI showcases that push technical boundaries worth pushing.
But true creativity often emerges when filmmakers face limitations and must find solutions that don’t involve simple computer tricks. Immersive worlds work best when they include tangible elements to ground them. I think younger filmmakers and audiences are realizing this: working within the constraints of props, miniatures, and makeup leads to some of the most amazing creative breakthroughs.
Look at Baby Yoda—his adorable design isn’t his only winning quality. He has that same tangible presence that makes E.T. and the original Yoda unforgettable.
Unlike many digital characters, Baby Yoda is primarily a puppet, for good reason. In the world of practical effects, you appreciate not just the artistry of creating his head mold but also the animatronics giving him life and the puppeteer’s skill making him move so naturally on screen. After all, puppets are what performers work with in practical effects.
Who wouldn’t want to bring a puppet to life with techniques that make it seem not just alive but someone you’d never want to leave behind? The practical effects of the 1980s—or any era—hold a special place in my heart. CGI has its strengths, but it still can’t match the practical effects from when filmmakers had to figure out how to blow up the spaceship in the original Battlestar Galactica (1978).
Younger folks might joke with us old-timers about how silly CGI looks compared to good old-fashioned model work and puppets, but that’s just stating the obvious—practical effects simply have an inherent advantage. If you can’t see these effects in action and appreciate the work behind them, at least try to give practical effects the same behind-the-scenes respect you’d give to animators creating digital imagery on screen.
