So, the other day, I’m rewatching Zombies (yes, I’m a grown adult, and yes, I have zero shame about my Disney Channel musical obsession), and my partner walks in. They squint at the screen, point at the brooding, guitar-playing werewolf in the leather jacket, and ask, “Wait, how old is that guy? He looks like he’s in his late twenties, but he’s supposed to be in high school, right?” I froze, because honestly, I’d been so busy vibing to the choreography that I’d never actually done the math on Bucky Buchanan.
And that, my friends, is the rabbit hole we’re diving into today. We’re going to unpack the age of the most delightfully grumpy werewolf in Seabrook, and spoiler alert: it’s not as simple as his yearbook photo suggests. Bucky’s age is a beautiful, confusing mess that hinges on movie timelines, actor ages, and the magical, timey-wimey logic of a franchise where zombies show up to high school like it’s no big deal.
The Math That Makes Your Head Spin
Let’s start with the basics, shall we? The first Zombies movie premiered in 2018, and the third one (which basically turns the school into a supernatural pride parade) dropped in 2022. If we assume that each movie takes place in the year it was released—which is a big, bold assumption—then Bucky is a freshman-ish in 2018 and a senior-ish by 2022. That would put him somewhere between 14 and 18, chronologically. But here’s the kicker: the actor who plays him, Trevor Tordjman, was born in 1995. That means he was 22 years old when he first donned that letterman jacket, and 26 when he was still trying to graduate.
Must Read
Now, I know what you’re thinking. “But he’s a werewolf! Maybe they age slower, like, biologically?” And honestly, that’s a generous theory, but the movie doesn’t give us a single clue to support it. No, this is just classic Disney casting, where a 26-year-old with a jawline sharp enough to cut glass is playing a teenager who still gets excited about a pep rally. It’s the same magic that made Zac Efron a high school senior until he was 25. We don’t question it; we just accept it and move on with our snack bowl.
Why Does It Even Matter?
Here’s the thing, though. In the context of Zombies, age is about as important as the rules of the football game—which is to say, it’s completely arbitrary and only there to serve the plot. Bucky’s arc goes from being a xenophobic jock who hates monsters to, well, a xenophobic jock who still hates monsters but is slightly less vocal about it. His age doesn’t dictate his behavior; his deep-seated insecurity does. Whether he’s 16 or 26, he’s still going to roll his eyes at Zed and pretend he’s not secretly jealous of his robo-arm.
Honestly, I think the real question isn’t “how old is Bucky,” but “why does he have the emotional maturity of a middle schooler who just got his lunch money stolen?” And that’s a completely different article, my friend. But let’s be real: if he were actually 14 in the first movie, his constant sneering would be slightly more forgivable. As a 22-year-old playing a teen, he just looks like a guy who peaked in high school and is desperate to stay there. Relatable? Possibly. Healthy? Absolutely not.
Disney’s Zombies Franchise Cast and Character Guide
The Verdict (Or Lack Thereof)
So, how old is Bucky from Zombies? If you ask the writers, he’s an ageless symbol of teenage angst, forever trapped in the liminal space between junior and senior year. If you ask the casting director, he’s “old enough to legally rent a car while wearing a backpack.” My official answer is: he’s whatever age the plot needs him to be. One minute he’s a seasoned veteran of Seabrook High, and the next he’s throwing a tantrum because someone touched his drum set. Age is a construct, and Bucky is the proof.
At the end of the day, does it really change your enjoyment of “Someday” if the guy singing backup is pushing 30? Absolutely not. If anything, it makes it funnier. You’re watching a grown man in a varsity sweater stress about prom decorations, and that’s peak entertainment. So next time you watch Zombies, don’t do the math. Just let the magic happen, and remember: Bucky is forever 17 in our hearts, and 26 on his driver’s license. And that, my friends, is the beautiful, nonsensical reality we live in.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a sudden urge to rewatch the “We Got This” dance sequence, and I highly recommend you do the same. Just don’t think too hard about it, or you’ll end up like me—writing a 700-word essay about a fictional werewolf’s biological timeline. You’re welcome.