Watership Down (1978)

“All the world will be your enemy, Prince with a Thousand Enemies, and whenever they catch you, they will kill you. But first, they must catch you.”

When Watership Down was released in 1978, British audiences were offered something that animation had rarely attempted at the time: a meditative, often brutal, deeply lyrical tale about survival and freedom—told through the eyes of rabbits. Based on Richard Adams’s bestselling 1972 novel, the film was directed by Martin Rosen, who made the audacious decision to treat the source material with solemnity, mythic scale, and political depth.

The result was a landmark in British animation: a film that shocked some, transfixed others, and ultimately carved out a legacy that endures nearly half a century later. Though often misremembered (or misrepresented) as “that scary rabbit cartoon,” Watership Down is far more than a traumatic rite of passage for young viewers. It is a poetic fable, a survival thriller, a political allegory—and one of the most emotionally resonant animated films ever made.

A Simple Escape with Epic Implications

At its core, Watership Down is the story of a group of rabbits who flee their doomed warren to seek a new home in the hills. The protagonist, Hazel (voiced with quiet strength by John Hurt), leads a small band away from Sandleford after his brother Fiver (Richard Briers) receives a vision of impending catastrophe. Their journey is fraught with danger—from predators and elements, from human encroachment, and ultimately from the fascistic rabbit dictatorship of Efrafa.

Though anthropomorphized in speech and character, the rabbits retain much of their naturalistic behaviour. They do not wear clothes or live in houses. Their society has laws, and their culture is steeped in oral myth. Most memorable among these is the tale of El-Ahrairah, the rabbit trickster-hero whose fable opens the film in a dazzling shadow-play sequence.

From the outset, Rosen sets the tone: this is not a children’s movie in the conventional sense. Death comes quickly and often. Violence is presented starkly—sometimes poetically, sometimes horrifyingly. Yet none of it is gratuitous. The stakes are life itself, and Watership Down does not shy away from nature’s indifference.

Visual Poetry in Earth Tones

The animation style, handled by an international team of artists including Arthur Rankin Jr. and John Hubley (who began work on the film before Rosen took over fully), is resolutely grounded. The backgrounds are gorgeously painted, resembling watercolours or pastoral English landscapes in the style of John Constable. The rabbits themselves are drawn realistically, not as caricatures or plush toys, and they move with fluid, often anxious grace.

This commitment to realism imbues the film with a tactile tension. When the rabbits cross an open field, we feel their vulnerability. When they rest beneath the underbrush, we sense their fleeting safety. The pastoral setting is never idealized—it is beautiful, yes, but also indifferent and perilous.

Contrasting this are the mythic interludes—moments when the visual style shifts to abstraction, notably in the prologue and in the film’s haunting climax. Here, the film transcends realism and moves into something closer to spiritual expressionism.

“Violence is presented starkly—sometimes poetically, sometimes horrifyingly. Yet none of it is gratuitous.”

Sound and Soul

Complementing the visuals is a subtle, evocative score by Angela Morley and Malcolm Williamson (with later contributions from Mike Batt). The music underscores without overwhelming, alternating between tension, melancholy, and awe.

The film's most recognizable musical moment, however, is “Bright Eyes,” written by Mike Batt and performed by Art Garfunkel. Though polarizing for some due to its soft-pop sensibility, the song became a UK chart-topper and, in context, serves as an elegiac lullaby in a story where death is never far away. It is one of the rare moments of sentimentality in a film otherwise grounded in stark emotional realism.

The voice cast is excellent across the board. John Hurt brings warmth and authority to Hazel. Richard Briers imbues Fiver with fragility and vision. Ralph Richardson voices the wise Frith with godlike serenity, and Harry Andrews’ General Woundwort is a terrifying study in totalitarian control, made all the more chilling for being so logically reasoned.

Allegory, Survival, and the Human Condition

Watership Down has been interpreted variously as a political allegory (with Woundwort’s Efrafa often likened to fascism or authoritarian socialism), an ecological warning, and a reflection on the loss of pastoral England in the wake of industrial expansion. While Richard Adams himself resisted over-politicized readings, the narrative undeniably speaks to larger themes: the struggle for freedom, the nature of leadership, the costs of security, and the necessity of belief.

What makes the film so affecting is its refusal to flatten those ideas into moral binaries. Hazel’s leadership is democratic but pragmatic. The rabbits are not heroes or villains—they are animals, survivors, thinkers, and followers. Even General Woundwort is not a monster, but a product of trauma and survivalist logic.

The spiritual framework of the rabbits’ mythology—especially the figure of El-Ahrairah and the godlike Frith—gives the film a moral gravity. This is a world where stories matter, not merely as diversion, but as survival tools and sources of meaning. In a world often governed by randomness and danger, belief becomes a shield against madness.

Legacy and Misconceptions

Despite critical acclaim, Watership Down has long had a complicated reputation, particularly in the Anglophone world. Many recall it primarily for its “traumatizing” violence, a perception exacerbated by its original U (universal) rating in the UK. The British Board of Film Classification later admitted this was a misjudgement, and a PG rating was eventually adopted.

Yet focusing solely on the film’s intensity does it a disservice. Watership Down is not violent for shock value—it is honest about the brutality of nature and the preciousness of life. In an era of sanitized animation, its gravity is refreshing. It treats young viewers (and all viewers) with respect, assuming they can handle complexity, ambiguity, and emotional weight.

Its influence can be seen in later works like The Plague Dogs (also directed by Rosen), The Secret of NIMH, and even The Lion King. Its reputation has only grown with time, aided by reassessments and a 2018 BBC/Netflix miniseries that, while commendable, lacked the visceral resonance of the original.

Final Thoughts

Watership Down is a singular work in the history of animation—a film of unflinching honesty, quiet courage, and haunting beauty. It blends myth and realism, tenderness and terror, political allegory and animal instinct. It challenges its audience, young and old alike, to grapple with the fragility of life and the cost of freedom.

More than four decades later, it remains unmatched in tone and intent. It is not an easy film, but it is a necessary one—an animated epic with the soul of a poem and the heart of a survivor.

Recommended For: Thoughtful viewers, animation lovers, older children, and adults unafraid to engage with grief, hope, and the meaning of resilience.