It 2017 crawls under your skin like a nightmare you can’t shake, this adaptation of Stephen King’s mammoth novel about childhood terror and lost innocence. Director Andy Muschietti’s vision of Derry, Maine doesn’t just recreate the 1980s – it resurrects the raw, primal fears that haunt us from our earliest years, when shadows stretched longer and darker across bedroom walls, and every storm drain held the potential for horror. In my darkest dreams, I still hear the echo of Pennywise’s laugh bouncing off sewer walls, a sound that transforms childhood fears into tangible terror.
The film opens with perhaps the most gut-wrenching scene in recent horror memory: little Georgie Denbrough chasing his paper boat through rain-slicked streets, only to meet Bill Skarsgård’s Pennywise – a performance that burrows into your psyche like a parasitic worm, feeding on your deepest fears. The innocence in Georgie’s eyes as he reaches for that damned paper boat haunts me still. Skarsgård doesn’t just play a monster; he becomes the embodiment of every childhood nightmare, his movements a terrible dance between playful and predatory. When those yellow eyes lock onto their prey, you feel the ancient evil behind them, countless centuries of children’s screams reflected in their glow. His performance makes you believe in monsters again, in all the things that sent us scrambling under covers when we were young.
But “It” transcends simple horror. At its beating heart, this is a story about the raw wounds of youth – the casual cruelties of bullies, the blind eyes of adults, the suffocating weight of trauma. The Losers Club, our band of outcast heroes, carries more baggage than their bikes can hold: Bill’s grief for his brother Georgie haunts every frame, Beverly’s abuse at her father’s hands poisons her home like toxic mold, and each member bears their own private horrors that Pennywise feeds upon with surgical precision. Watching these kids navigate their personal hells reminds me of every childhood fear I ever buried, every monster I convinced myself wasn’t real.
The young cast delivers performances that cut straight to the bone. Jaeden Martell’s Bill stutters through his pain with quiet determination, while Sophia Lillis gives Beverly a fierce resilience that blazes through the screen. Finn Wolfhard’s Richie provides more than comic relief – his rapid-fire jokes mask a deep terror, making his moments of genuine fear all the more powerful. Jack Dylan Grazer’s Eddie vibrates with neurotic energy, his fears both ridiculous and heartbreakingly real. Jeremy Ray Taylor brings a sweet vulnerability to Ben that makes you ache for every cruel word thrown his way. Each member of the Losers Club feels startlingly real, their friendships forged in the fire of shared trauma.
Muschietti orchestrates the horror with a maestro’s touch. The scares build like a symphony of terror – quiet moments of dread punctuated by explosive bursts of nightmare fuel. The abandoned house on Neibolt Street becomes a funhouse of horrors, each room a new variation on childhood fears. But it’s in the quieter moments that the film truly terrifies: Beverly’s bathroom drowning in blood that only she can see, Eddie’s encounter with the leper, Stan’s face-to-face meeting with the twisted painting woman. These scenes tap into something deeper than jump scares – they speak to the isolation of childhood trauma, the terror of not being believed. I found myself holding my breath during these moments, remembering times when my own fears were dismissed as imagination.
The film’s recreation of 1980s Derry feels less like nostalgia and more like excavating a cursed burial ground. This isn’t the sanitized version of the era that we often see – there’s dirt under the fingernails, blood in the soil. The town itself becomes a character, its sunny surface barely concealing generations of violence and disappeared children. The cinematography by Chung-hoon Chung captures both the golden haze of summer freedom and the lurking shadows that threaten to swallow it whole. Every frame feels authentic to the period while avoiding the trap of becoming a mere nostalgia piece.
What elevates “It” above standard horror fare is its unflinching look at the nature of fear itself. Pennywise isn’t just a monster that lives in the sewers – he’s the embodiment of every adult who looked away, every system that failed to protect the vulnerable, every terrible thing we try to forget. The film suggests that the real horror isn’t the supernatural entity hunting children, but the very human monsters who walk in daylight: Beverly’s predatory father, Henry Bowers and his gang of sadistic bullies, the adults who turn blind eyes to obvious abuse. There’s a scene where an elderly couple drives past while Henry Bowers torments Ben, and their willful ignorance chills me more than any clown ever could.
The violence, when it comes, hits with sledgehammer force. Georgie’s death in the opening scene sets the tone – this isn’t a film that pulls punches or offers easy comfort. The brutality isn’t gratuitous; it serves to remind us that childhood isn’t the safe haven we pretend it is. Yet even in its darkest moments, “It” never loses sight of its emotional core. The friendship between the Losers Club shines like a beacon in the darkness, their bond strengthened by each shared terror. Their battles against Pennywise become metaphors for facing their own demons, each confrontation forcing them to overcome not just the monster, but their own paralyzing fears.
Benjamin Wallfisch’s score deserves special mention, weaving childlike melodies with discordant horror themes that set your teeth on edge. The music becomes another character in the film, guiding us through the emotional landscape of terror and triumph. When the score drops away entirely, leaving us alone with the sound of dripping water in the sewers or the creak of old house timbers, the silence becomes its own kind of terror.
What makes “It” truly remarkable is how it captures the bittersweet nature of childhood’s end. As the Losers battle their supernatural tormentor, they’re also fighting against time itself, against the inevitable loss of innocence that comes with growing up. Their blood oath to return in 27 years carries the weight of both promise and prophecy – they know they’re leaving something behind in those sewers, something they can never fully reclaim. It’s a moment that resonates with anyone who’s ever felt the sharp pain of childhood friendships drifting apart.
The film’s flaws – and there are some – feel almost appropriate given its themes of imperfect memory and fractured narrative. The pacing occasionally stumbles, some scares rely too heavily on CGI rather than practical effects, and certain character arcs feel slightly undernourished. But these imperfections don’t diminish the film’s power. Like the memories of childhood itself, it’s the emotional truth rather than perfect accuracy that matters.
Skarsgård’s Pennywise deserves special attention – this isn’t just a rehash of Tim Curry’s iconic performance from the 1990 miniseries, but something altogether more ancient and alien. His movements are wrong in ways that bypass conscious thought and trigger primitive fear responses. The performance suggests something truly otherworldly trying to wear a human shape, and failing in subtle, horrifying ways. Every scene with Pennywise feels like a violation of natural law, his presence an affront to reality itself.
The film’s exploration of childhood trauma hits particularly hard in today’s context. The way the adults of Derry either can’t or won’t see the horror unfolding around them mirrors our own society’s frequent failure to protect its most vulnerable members. The Losers Club’s journey from victims to warriors resonates with movements of young people rising up against systems that have failed them. It’s a reminder that sometimes the only ones who can fight the monsters are those who have been hunted by them.
What lingers after the credits roll isn’t the jump scares or the supernatural horror, but the profound sense of loss and triumph intertwined in the story. “It” reminds us that growing up is its own kind of horror story – a process of losing innocence, facing fears, and finding strength in friendship. The film suggests that while we can never truly go home again, the bonds we forge in facing our fears shape us forever. I found myself thinking about my own childhood friends long after leaving the theater, wondering if we too had fought monsters without realizing it.
In the end, “It” floats above the typical horror fare by anchoring its supernatural terrors in very human emotions. It’s a reminder that the most frightening stories aren’t about monsters in the shadows, but about the shadows we carry within ourselves. Like the best of King’s work, it understands that true horror lies not in what lurks in the dark, but in how we face it – and who stands beside us when we do.
The film closes like a fever dream breaking, leaving us with the bitter taste of childhood’s end and the sweet promise of friendship that transcends terror. It’s a powerful reminder that while fear may float, courage and love run deeper than any sewer system’s depths. In Muschietti’s hands, “It” becomes more than a horror movie – it’s a dark mirror reflecting our own battles with fear, loss, and the terrible price of growing up. Walking out of the theater, I found myself looking at storm drains differently, remembering that sometimes the most terrifying things aren’t the monsters we imagine, but the ones we choose to forget.