Few novels in modern literature carry the cultural weight and sheer unfilmable reputation of Stephen King’s It. A sprawling 1,100-page epic published in 1986, the book is equal parts coming-of-age drama, small-town mystery, and cosmic horror. At its core lies an ancient, shape-shifting entity that feeds on fear, manifesting most famously as Pennywise the Dancing Clown. The story of Derry, Maine, and the Losers’ Club has haunted generations, but bringing it to the screen proved to be one of Hollywood’s most notorious challenges. This is the story of two very different adaptations: the groundbreaking 1990 ABC miniseries and Andy Muschietti’s blockbuster 2017 film (followed by its 2019 sequel). One triumphed through raw acting brilliance despite crippling limitations. The other delivered visual spectacle and unrelenting terror thanks to modern technology and creative freedom. Together, they represent two eras of horror filmmaking and two radically different interpretations of the same nightmare.
The Unfilmable Novel
By the late 1980s, Stephen King was a literary phenomenon, but it was considered nearly impossible to adapt. Its length was only the beginning. The novel contains profoundly disturbing elements: graphic child violence, heavy sexual content (including the controversial group scene near the end), cosmic entities like the Turtle, and psychological trauma woven throughout. Studios and networks balked. The story demanded both intimate character work across decades and large-scale monstrous horror—on a budget that rarely existed for television. When ABC finally greenlit a miniseries in 1990, the conditions were harsh. The project had to be family-friendly enough for broadcast television: minimal blood, no profanity, and an extremely tight budget. Director Tommy Lee Wallace stepped into a production where practical effects and ingenuity would have to compensate for what censorship and money could not provide.
1990 Miniseries: Triumph of Performance Over Production
Shot on a shoestring budget with 1990s television constraints, the miniseries should have been forgettable. Instead, it became legendary—largely thanks to one man. Tim Curry’s Pennywise remains one of the most iconic horror performances ever captured on screen. After his exhausting, prosthetic-heavy role in Legend, Curry refused heavy makeup. He wanted his own face visible. The result was minimalist yet devastating: white base, red nose, blue eyelids, and that manic smile. Curry didn’t hide behind a mask—he became the mask. His performance relied on voice, eyes, timing, and improvisation. He kept the child actors genuinely unsettled, often staying in character between takes. The unsettling chuckle, the sing-song taunts, the way he shifted from playful to predatory—all originated from Curry. Practical effects defined the entire production. The infamous bathroom scene with animated pipes used real plumbing manipulated by crew members hidden behind walls and massive amounts of steam. Blood emerging from a photo album? Aquarium pumps and colored syrup. Everything was tactile and analog. In an era before CGI, these solutions were ingenious, though they sometimes looked dated even then. Yet the limitations showed. Without blood and overt violence, the miniseries leaned heavily on psychological tension and atmosphere. For long stretches, it worked. The childhood segments are particularly strong, capturing the camaraderie and vulnerability of the Losers’ Club. However, the adult segments feel rushed, and the two timelines never fully mesh with the same emotional weight. The ultimate punchline—and greatest weakness—arrives in the finale. After two and a half hours of building dread, viewers were greeted by a giant rubber spider. Heavy, clumsy, and operated by multiple crew members, the creature drew laughs instead of screams on set. Director Tommy Lee Wallace later admitted the design looked promising on paper but failed in execution. Smoke and lightning tried to conceal the flaws, but the final form of it became a punchline in horror history. Tim Curry’s masterful psychological horror was ultimately undermined by a puppet that couldn’t even move convincingly. Despite its flaws, the 1990 version endures because Curry’s Pennywise feels dangerously human. He is the creepy clown at the neighborhood party, the stranger who knows too much about your fears. He weaponizes familiarity.
Development Hell: The Long Road to 2017
For decades, a cinematic adaptation remained trapped in production hell. In 2009, Warner Bros. announced plans. By 2012, Cary Fukunaga (True Detective) was attached to a radically dark vision. His script emphasized deep childhood trauma over jump scares. Will Poulter was cast as Pennywise and delivered strong tests, but creative differences and studio demands for a more commercial tone led Fukunaga to exit. Enter Andy Muschietti. Fresh off the success of Mama, the Argentine director had the audacity to demand an R-rating. If they were going to kill a child in the opening scene, it had to hurt. The studio eventually agreed, and cameras rolled in 2016.
2017: Modern Horror Blockbuster
In 2017, it is a completely different beast. With a much larger budget and freedom from broadcast censorship, Muschietti delivered a visually stunning, relentlessly scary experience that grossed over $700 million worldwide. Bill Skarsgård’s Pennywise is the polar opposite of Curry’s. Where Curry played a twisted, almost theatrical human clown, Skarsgård plays something distinctly inhuman. His movements are erratic and predatory. He keeps his head eerily still while his body jerks unnaturally—like a creature poorly imitating humanity. Skarsgård’s facial control is extraordinary. The drooping lower lip, the independent eye movement (enabled by his natural lazy eye), and grotesque expressions were largely practical. CGI enhanced rather than replaced his performance. Costume designer Janie Bryant created a deliberately ancient, tattered look. The costume incorporates Renaissance, Victorian, and medieval elements—dusty, wrinkled, and timeless. This Pennywise doesn’t feel like he bought his outfit at a party store. He feels like an ancient evil wearing a decaying disguise. The film excels in its set pieces. The woman from the painting, inspired by Amedeo Modigliani’s distorted portraits, combines practical performance (an actor with a rare genetic condition for unnatural thinness and height) with CGI for surreal, impossible anatomy. Other forms of it benefit from modern technology that allows fluid, nightmarish transformations—something the 1990 version could only dream of. Muschietti also leaned heavily into visual unease. Dutch angles, distorted perspectives, and careful sound design create constant subconscious tension. The opening scene with Georgie is brutally direct, setting the tone immediately: no one is safe.
Head-to-Head: Two Pennywises, Two Philosophies of Fear
Tim Curry and Bill Skarsgård represent two valid but fundamentally different approaches to horror. Curry’s Pennywise is intimate and psychological. He seduces and manipulates. His terror comes from familiarity and the violation of childhood innocence. He feels like something that could exist in our world, making him deeply unsettling. The 1990 version proves that great acting and clever direction can overcome budget and censorship limitations. Skarsgård’s Pennywise is cosmic and predatory. He is chaos incarnate—an ancient, incomprehensible entity wearing a clown suit. His horror is visceral, visual, and relentless. The 2017 film succeeds because it fully embraces the novel’s scale and the alien nature of It. Modern effects finally allowed the creature to behave as described in the book: constantly shifting, enormous in power, and indifferent to human sanity. The supporting casts also differ. The 1990 child actors have a raw, naturalistic charm that many still prefer. The 2017 kids benefit from stronger scripting and direction in the horror sequences, though some argue the adult versions in Chapter Two falter.
Cultural Impact and Legacy
The 1990 miniseries proved horror could be a television event. It introduced Pennywise to an entire generation and showed that practical creativity could birth an icon. The 2017 film proved horror could be a massive box-office powerhouse while maintaining artistic edge. It sparked a new wave of King adaptations and elevated the clown horror subgenre. Neither is perfect. The 1990 version collapses in its final act. The 2017/2019 films sometimes prioritize spectacle over deeper emotional resonance, particularly in the second chapter. Both struggle with the novel’s most controversial elements, though the movies handle trauma and fear more viscerally. Ultimately, they complement each other. Curry’s performance laid the foundation. Skarsgård and Muschietti built upon it with tools King’s imagination always demanded. The 1990 version is a beloved artifact of what was possible with limited means. The 2017 version is what happens when technology catches up to vision.
The Enduring Power of Fear
It remains terrifying because it understands that the real monster isn’t always the clown. It’s the fear we carry, the trauma we bury, and the friends who stand beside us when darkness comes. Both adaptations tap into this truth in their own way. Whether you’re haunted by Tim Curry’s haunting laughter echoing down a storm drain or by Bill Skarsgård’s impossible smile and dead eyes, one thing is certain: Pennywise endures. He feeds on our fear, and both versions have given audiences plenty to be afraid of. In the end, there is no single “true” It. There are only different windows into the same ancient evil. Some prefer the warm, analog nightmare of 1990. Others embrace the cold, digital precision of 2017. The clown will keep dancing—because fear never dies. It only changes form.
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