Courtesy of Broadway in Detroit
Forty years after the film debuted in theaters, “Back to the Future,” like “Mean Girls,” “Mrs. Doubtfire,” and “Pretty Woman” before it, has been given the Broadway musical treatment. And, much like those aforementioned shows, the biggest question hovering over it remains: why?
I’ll admit, the idea of adapting Robert Zemeckis’ classic for the stage piqued my curiosity. Live theater is a notoriously tricky medium to translate cinematic spectacle into something immediate and alive. But within minutes, it becomes clear that this production has written itself into a paradox of its own, one that even Doc Brown couldn’t fix. Some things, perhaps, should have been left in 1985.
Let’s start with the obvious problem: “Back to the Future” depends almost entirely on two performances that are ingrained in pop culture history. No one watching this show will ever stop comparing the stage Marty McFly and Doc Brown to Michael J. Fox and Christopher Lloyd. In this iteration, that weight falls to Lucas Hallauer as Marty and David Josefsberg as Doc. To their credit, they both deliver with manic energy and a certain self-aware charm. Josefsberg milks every “Great Scott!” for all it’s worth—about fifteen times’ worth, in fact—but there’s only so far you can go when the audience’s main emotion is nostalgia.
The real star of this show, however, isn’t a person, it’s the DeLorean. A fully functional, flashing, time-traveling marvel that steals every scene it glides into. The staging of Marty’s first jump through time, powered by plutonium and blazing toward 1955, is undeniably spectacular. Between the projections, sound design, and lighting wizardry, it’s a moment of sheer theatrical sorcery: an immersive burst of theme-park energy that nearly justifies the ticket price. Nearly.
Unfortunately, the wow factor wears off once the music starts. Bob Gale’s book, paired with a score by Alan Silvestri and Glen Ballard, takes a tight, two-hour movie and stretches it into a bloated two-and-a-half-hour spectacle that mistakes noise for momentum. Silvestri, whose film compositions defined the original’s magic, seems oddly restrained here; the score feels like a pastiche of half-remembered ‘80s riffs and generic Broadway bombast.
Minor characters are inflated to justify extra songs. Marty’s girlfriend Jennifer and future Mayor Goldie Wilson (played gamely by Sophia Macap and Cartreze Tucker) each get solos so unnecessary they border on parody. Meanwhile, songs like “Hello—Is Anybody Home?” (Marty’s dad lamenting his loser status) or “For the Dreamers” (Doc’s ode to scientific heroes) feel like filler stitched between set pieces. By the time Act II unleashes a bizarre techno-rave number—complete with LED chaos, fog, and backup dancers who appear for no reason other than to distract—Doc has already broken the fourth wall to admit, “I don’t know, they just show up whenever I start singing.” It’s meant as a joke, but it’s also a confession.
The show leans hard on nostalgia and meta humor. There are quips about “Star Wars,” “The Wizard of Oz,” even 2020 (“a year with no disease!”). It’s cute, sure, but often too cute. Familiar zingers like “Where we’re going, we don’t need roads” and “Your kids are gonna love it” land with a wink and a nudge rather than genuine impact. The result feels less like an homage and more like a souvenir shop musical: glossy, loud, and hollow.
Bob Gale’s loyalty to his original 1985 screenplay keeps the bones intact, minus a few politically safe alterations (goodbye, Libyan terrorists; hello, radiation poisoning). But that faithfulness becomes a trap. The famous mother-son paradox still unfolds with the same Freudian cringe, except now it’s accompanied by Lorraine singing roughly sixteen variations of “I’m in love with a stranger who’s actually my son.” By the fourth reprise, the audience’s laughter starts sounding more nervous than amused.
Even the few bright spots can’t escape the show’s imbalance. “My Myopia,” George McFly’s peeping-Tom number performed by Mike Bindeman, has a goofy charm, even if the staging—him surrounded by swaying, leafy projections—feels unintentionally absurd. On the technical side, the production values are genuinely stunning. Gareth Owen’s sound design, Tim Lutkin and Hugh Vanstone’s lighting, and Tim Hatley’s scenic design all replicate the film’s visual identity with striking fidelity. When the lightning strikes during the climactic clock tower sequence, and Doc dangles from the wires in front of projected storm clouds, the illusion borders on thrilling.
But spectacle alone can’t power a musical. The score, despite flashes of cleverness, never finds a cohesive identity. It borrows fragments of Silvestri’s iconic themes, sprinkles in jukebox nods like “Johnny B. Goode” and “The Power of Love,” and calls it a day. These moments do spark life, but they also remind you how much sharper, tighter, and more infectious the movie’s original rhythms were.
Nathaniel Hackman’s Biff Tannen fares better than most, with “Teach Him a Lesson” providing one of the few songs that actually fits both character and moment. It’s a burst of personality in a show that otherwise confuses fan service for storytelling.
Ultimately, “Back to the Future: The Musical” is a case study in Broadway’s increasing dependence on intellectual property, turning cinematic lightning in a bottle into safe, marketable nostalgia. Like the DeLorean itself, the show runs on the power of memory, not invention. It looks and sounds the part, but it never captures the soul of the original.
The car flies, the clock ticks, and everyone cheers. But when the curtain falls, you’re left humming nothing.
BACK TO THE FUTURE: THE MUSICAL continues through November 9th at the Detroit Opera House.
Tickets can be purchased here.