*distinctive background music of Rossini's La Gazza Ladra overture*
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A shot offers Jackson Robert Scott sitting in the grass, fiddling with the clown's faded shoelace, corners of his lips pent-up against the obvious urge to break into a laugh, and the choked laughing behind the camera isn't helping at all. At the same time, an acorn is tossed from behind the shot, missing his temple by half a millimeter, only succeeding at harmlessly ruffling his hair, but succeeding very much into making him lift his head and grin. „Really? You missed this forehead?"
At the same time, the voice of Finn Wolfhard, respectively, can be heard from the direction Jackson is referring to. „I'd aim at another forehead I couldn't miss if I tried, but I can't."
Next to Jackson, Bill Skarsgård looks up from the blank folded paper he was aimlessly fiddling with and twists his face into the best impression of a crying emoji, therefore succeeding at further cracking the little boy up.
The next three entries are with the same result, each little bullet practically dodging the target from absurd angles, even as it is obvious Finn isn't the one tossing them since he's busy laughing with the others. Finally, when the little torpedo is cast with satisfying, below harmful force, Jackson suffers a hit, but doesn't satisfy the critics and bursts out laughing after a funny-sounding 'ow'.
The second score doesn't change the result much, except the kid decides to grip the sore spot this time.
Jackson has the bright idea to give up and duck the third, leaning over and burying his head in Bill's costume, and nobody of the laughing crew knows if the silent laughter that is shaking his shoulders as well is of desperation or chronic glee. A white, gloved hand comes around his back to pat him comfortably, but also to muster up his courage. He's gonna need it.
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„IKEA", Bill states, pointing with both arms at the pell-mell fortress of furniture like Will Smith pointing at his wife.
From underneath it, Jackson peeks out, on his elbows. „What do you have against IKEA?"
Bill bends down, sarcastically deadpanned look on his face. „Chronologically or alphabetically?"
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„Why can we drink a drink but we can't food a food?" Sophia Lillis says, seated on the iron stair, a pensive look directed into the distance, arms barely managing to go all the way around Bill's ridiculously puffy costume.
Without so much as a blink, Bill responds, „Why are shorts called shorts, but pants aren't called longs?"
„Too many birthdays will kill you", Sophia manages to find a steady voice, even as her lips are beginning to curl.
Untouched by the crew starting to crack up in the background, Bill concludes with a nod: „A strip club with no music would be really unsettling."
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Jack Dylan Grazer is many things, but the winner of a Witney Houston competition isn't one of them. „AND IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIYYYYEEEEEIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII—" Whatever he thinks he sounds like, it's nothing but like a shrieking donkey who's trying too hard. It looks even more absurd with him perched on the tree trunk, strutting like a chief rooster in the henhouse. Obviously, being outside, positioned high up in the tree, means you have to be louder in everything.
Thankfully, it isn't long before the show is interrupted by the lack of air making him cough and ridding him of the said grace.
Among the half-enthusiastic claps, Jeremy Ray Taylor whistles encouragingly from below.
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Wyatt Oleff is seen paging through the bird manual, Stan's usual seriousness wrapped securely around his face. To his left, Bill has binoculars pressed into his eyes, surveying a little too intensely around the treeline. Whether stubbornly persistent, or genuinely interested, the gravity that takes hold of him at that moment didn't care. Bill either doesn't acknowledge the bench he was hosting has no backrest, or the magnified world takes over his brain. In either case, once he realizes he's falling, that was it. With one, comical 'thud', without even a yelp, Bill hits the ground, feet taking over his place in the frame. That only is enough to instantly catapult Wyatt into a fit, who lowers his head to the table while his shoulders shake.
„They're definitely out of focus", Bill's feet comment miserably.
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„I don't see any problems", says Bill, crawling into the self-made sleeping tent.
And then he bumps his head against something sharp. „There's one", he moans painfully versus Jackson's giggles.
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The cat pounces stunningly after the beam of light and it doesn't even stop her to climb up the open door and perch herself there. She doesn't seem to have taken half an effort to do it, too. Her brilliant eyes only seek for the dancing light, which was nowhere to be seen.
The frame zooms out, showing Sophia turning to look at the camera. The expression she wears is above bewildered.
„Jesus Christ it's Jason Bourne."
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„Why doesn't anyone talk about Pennywise's shoes?" Finn asks, shoving the said thing into the camera; the brown-white thing adorned an adorable pom-pom on its tip. „I mean... it's so big that you can sit in it", he then proceeds to unceremoniously push his hand into the boot's inside and admires it like a newly conceded glove. "And paddle it down the river."
Somewhere in the back, Bill's voice can be heard perfectly clearly, inexplicably startling Finn so that he ducks with a half-guilty, half-startled expression and disappears out of shot.
„Hey, where's my other shoe?!"
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„I never want to work these kids, but I'll get 'em there", Bill has a huge open-mouthed grin on his face, straining to walk forward while he has Chosen Jacobs latched to one of his hands. Him digging his feet into the ground and practically demanding to be pulled along doesn't help at all. Even less helpful is the fact that holding onto Chosen's hips is equally gleeful Jaeden Lieberher. Apparently, he doesn't feel like walking, either. Dust is whirling beneath their feet on the ground next to the quarry while the others watch joyously from aside, and Bill knows that if he had to tag anyone else along with these two dorks, he would no longer be able to move. He's having too much fun with this as it is, anyway.
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There are many more line-screwing, ballet-dancing, scene-breaking, face-making, random-singing, tripping-and-falling (intentionally or unintentionally), goofy moments that are enough to be disposed in one-second long shots, but sugar in the end is Andy Muschietti sitting in a chair next to a camera, rubbing his temples, on the edge of exhaustion, the leftovers of a smile still showing an inner emotion that says otherwise.
„I need another coffee."
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