Back to the Future
The Best Simple Time Travel Movie Ever
“Great Scott!”
Back to the Future is excellent; it’s in the pantheon of 80s movies for me. (See below.) And I’ve been looking forward to writing this post all summer. So you can imagine my surprise when, a few days ago, during the preparatory viewing for this post, something occurred to me: Back to the Future is not, after all, a good Film Lit Film.
I’ll say, I was pretty disappointed in this revelation. And, yeah, I was distraught. How, I thought, could I pitch this film in good faith? Should I even write about it at all? But I kept thinking, and eventually came to a place that eased at least a little of my academic tension.
I still don’t think this film works as well as I would want or need in a conventional Film Lit class. As we’ll discuss later, one of its beauties is its simplicity; that it’s a bit light on ambiguity and complexity means it doesn’t easily lend itself to the more beautiful and rewarding types of Film Lit Discussions.
Having said that, there’s at least one fun and worthwhile way to incorporate it into a Film Lit class. I haven’t teased it all the way out yet, but it would be neat to show Back to the Future late in the semester and then have students work on a group project: a chapter of a hypothetical Film Structure textbook.
I won’t discuss all the textbook structural elements here; and I wouldn’t expect students to mention all the ones I will. But this film—apart from the undeniable chemistry of the cast—is replete with structural successes.
“You’re telling me you made a time machine . . . out of a DeLorean?!?”
As former Film Lit students already know, a textbook Act I ends when the protagonist crosses from the known to the unknown world. In this case, of course, that’s when Marty arrives in 1955. And by then, we’ve already checked so many key structural boxes.
For example, the story has set up numerous playbacks. (For the uninitiated: a playback is an element we see early in the film that we also see later.) We hear multiple lines in Act I that we’ll hear from the same (and other) characters later in the film, including the iconic, “What are you looking at, butthead?” (More on this particular line later.) Marty will hear his own fears of rejection echoed by his father later on, and thus gain a new sense of empathy for George. We see signs for Goldie Wilson’s re-election campaign. My favorite, of course, is that Marty meets Doc at the Twin Pines Mall—which will, naturally, be called the Lone Pine Mall on Marty’s return.
That I could go on and on demonstrates that this story is a landmark of audience flattery. Over and over as the movie goes on, the viewer can say, “Hey! I remember that!” They get to feel smart. And, importantly, the viewer doesn’t have to work for it; so the viewer can feel smart and have fun at once. (Editor’s note: as I wrote that sentence, I thought of a clear counter-example: Memento. Whew, there are all sorts of playbacks in that one, but you absolutely do have to put in a lot of intellectual work, just to keep up. Definitely did not feel smart, and definitely did not have that much fun.) (Editor’s note: as I wrote that last sentence, I decided we’ll cover Memento eventually—because, as unfun as it can be, it’s really ambitious and awesome.)
We also have clear and memorable exposition. We know, for example, that lightning struck the clock tower at 10:04 on November 12th, 1955. We know that Lorraine fell in love with George after Lorraine’s father hit him with the car. We know that Doctor Brown “invented” time travel on November 5th, 1955. And, most famously and enduringly, we know that it takes 1.21 gigawatts and 88 miles per hour for time travel to occur.
Seriously, if you can think of a more famous pair of numbers in film exposition, let me know. That I cannot speaks to the screenplay’s effectiveness.
We also know very clearly the protagonist’s objective, and his primary obstacle: Marty must get back to 1985, but he doesn’t have enough plutonium.
Act I also exhibits range. For all of the comedic moments in Act I, some of them slapstick, Doc Brown’s death injects genuine sadness and adds gravity—and another complication. As we’ll discuss, the payoff to this scene bolsters an excellent Act III.
[Editor’s Note: I will add one caveat. I don’t know how uncomfortable the modern first-time viewer feels about the depiction of “the Libyans.” When I first saw this film in the 80s, I was, I’ll admit, undisturbed. Now, though, the depiction—specifically that they come in guns blazing—doesn’t sit right with me. I clearly understand that for the story to work, Doc Brown has to get shot. And, hey: plutonium thieves can come from any country. I do wish, though, that the murder could have occurred after some failed negotiation or explanation. As it stands, the murder confirms stereotypes that non-white foreigners are mindlessly violent.]
“I’m your density.”
Act II also does masterfully what a classic Act II should do: turn the screws and raise the stakes. Specifically, as difficult as Marty’s job was before, getting hit by the car now adds another complication, another mission. As soon as he pushes George out of the way, we know the structural significance of Lorraine telling her children the origin story of her marriage, one she’s told “a million times.”
To this end, I do love the sibling photograph as a structural signpost. Okay, so haters might ask who in the world just happens to carry small photographs of their living siblings on their person. And other haters might point out that the pace of existence erasure is more than a little inconsistent. Whatever.
From a structural standpoint, it helpfully keeps us updated on Marty’s likelihood of success, and makes the tension more consistent. I’ll add here that I recently came to appreciate what I had long thought was a throwaway line. When Marty first shows Doc the picture, Doc claims that it is a forgery, insisting, “They cut off your brother’s hair!” Duh. Of course, he’s already hinting that the erasure from existence has begun. I can’t believe I didn’t get that earlier.
Another thing the screenwriters do well in Act II is stick to the spine of the story. To this end, they make conscious choices to present a simplified vision of timelines and time travel that keeps the story focused. When it comes to avoiding future disaster, only two things really matter: the kiss on the dance floor, and Doc knowing about his death.
I mean—and look, I’m no quantum physicist (yet)—wouldn’t it already be disastrous if Goldie Wilson has specific mayoral aspirations as a teen? Wouldn’t it already be disastrous if Doc Brown learns for a fact that he will succeed in his most important scientific goal? Perhaps I’ve seen too many multiverse movies of late—in fact, I almost assuredly have—but according to the the logic of 2020s time travel films, doesn’t every interaction Marty has with any- and everyone in 1955 create a new timeline? Shouldn’t we worry about that?
The screenplay says, no: don’t worry about it. As long as George and Lorraine kiss on the dance floor and fall in love, all will be well. And as long as Doc doesn’t know he will die before he can use the time machine, the universe will not collapse on itself. So as long as we complete this simple and difficult mission, we can have a happy ending.
“I guess you guys aren’t ready for that. But your kids are gonna love it.”
Act III is wonderful. I’ve read several analyses of this script, and more than a few start Act III after the “Enchantment Under the Sea” dance. I prefer—and don’t think it’s unreasonable—to think Act III starts with Marty and Lorraine in the car; after all, that’s the beginning of the final plan.
The moments leading up to George and Lorraine’s first kiss are replete with tension and terror. And Marty’s reincarnation is triumphant. And come on: the Johnny B. Goode scene is undeniably fun. (I’ll say: as a hack guitarist myself, my new favorite part of the literal show-stopping solo is that there are multiple off-ramps, multiple moments when Marty could have plausibly ended the solo and been both revolutionary and entertaining.)
My favorite moment of the entire film, though—one that still evokes tears after all these viewings—is the hug Marty and Doc Brown share. Among many other things, it’s a stirring example of dramatic irony: Doc Brown has no idea how significant it is. Only Marty and the viewer know the moral crisis, the sadness, he is going through when, in response to Doc’s promise to see him “in about thirty years,” Marty says, “I hope so.” Brilliantly set up and perfectly executed.
The sequences that take us from the hug to Doc Brown’s rising from the presumed dead are filmmaking magic—a flurry of exquisitely scored triumphs and reversals. The execution of the plan to get Marty back to 1955 is right up there with the “Desert Chase” in Raiders of the Lost Ark in terms of masterfully directed action scenes. [For the uninitiated: here’s the Film Lit Pitch for Raiders.] And the reunion between Marty and Doc Brown provides the type of catharsis that’s rare for ostensible comedies.
“So why don’t you make like a tree, and get outta here?”
Before I—ahem—leave, I want to point out that the structure of this film becomes even neater when you watch Back to the Future: Part II. [Editor’s Note: I think that film is better than many people seem to.]
See you on August 30th, when we discuss Lady Bird (2017).
P.s. The first sentence of this post got me thinking. So here, dear reader, is my list of Top 5 80s movies. [Editor’s Note: they are not ranked. A ranked Top 10 will be a later post, maybe next summer.]
5. Ferris Bueller’s Day Off
4. This is Spinal Tap
3. Aliens
2. Back to the Future
1. The Empire Strikes Back
P.p.s. Everyone is great in this film. (And, yes, I chose not to discuss that when shooting began, Eric Stoltz was Marty.) But, I have to say, I love Tom Wilson as Biff. And, even if I didn’t, this video would make me love him.]