Matt and Ross Duffer have been dying to destroy Hawkins for a decade. Their show Stranger Things became a phenomenon when it debuted in 2016 and has achieved unrivaled popularity in a fractured TV landscape. But the identical twin showrunners knew it would stretch credulity if the citizens of their ’80s-era Spielbergian hamlet continued to live in a town overrun by extradimensional threats. So for years, they kept the series’ supernatural showdowns to abandoned malls and far-flung Soviet prisons. But now, in the fifth and final season of Netflix’s biggest show, the brothers can finally unleash hell on Main Street.
I step onto the Atlanta set in July 2024, ready to watch the mayhem unfold. It’s day 135, about halfway through filming, and somewhere between 400 and 500 cast and crew members are working today. Nearly 100 camo-clad extras mill outside the library and enjoy craft services’ finest shawarma beside fake bloodied corpses. Stuntmen wait to be thrown into the air by people in gray bodysuits with orange ping-pong balls attached to their heads, who will be transformed into monsters called Demogorgons by the magic of CGI. And it’s not even the biggest scene they’re shooting this year. “The sets were no less ambitious than the ones I used with Marvel,” executive producer and frequent director Shawn Levy tells me later. Levy helmed his last two episodes of Stranger Things between wrapping Deadpool & Wolverine and starting a Star Wars film. “It happens to be a television series, but it’s epic storytelling by any metric.”
On the day of my visit, the Duffer brothers are directing a series of sequences that, when stitched together, will look like a single shot. From inside a dilapidated faux Radio Shack, they call, “Action!” Mike, played by now 22-year-old actor Finn Wolfhard, herds a group of children, one dressed in an “E.T. Phone Home” shirt, away from danger. “By the end of this scene,” visual effects supervisor Michael Maher tells me, “just about everyone you see standing up is going to be dead except the kids.” Ninety minutes and three takes later, Wolfhard wanders over to the Duffers’ monitors and declares the shot looks “sick.” Ross agrees.
When the brothers conceived of Stranger Things in 2013 as a series inspired by childhood favorites like Stand by Me and E.T., they had no idea it would become one of the most profitable shows ever. Data firm Parrot Analytics estimates the series has brought in 2 million new subscribers and over $1 billion in revenue for Netflix since 2020, the year it started tracking data. And each new installment has grown in cost and ambition. “It’s a little scary,” says Matt. “It puts pressure on every season because it has to perform better than the one prior to it in order to continue to justify growing the scale of the show.”
Ross jumps in: “We were nervous about Season 4.” It reportedly cost $30 million per episode, $270 million total, among the most expensive seasons of television ever made. Three years later, Season 4 still sits atop Netflix’s most-watched list based on the number of hours viewed, at 1.8 billion. “It was such a relief when it got the viewership it did because you don’t want to scale down for your final season.”
“Or an abbreviated final season,” Matt says. “These were all possible realities.” Netflix will not confirm how much the final installment cost. But in early October, Puck reported that Netflix spent $50 million to $60 million on each of the eight episodes, for a total of nearly half a billion dollars—close to double the previous season’s sizable spend. “We don’t operate in a bottomless reservoir of cash,” Levy says. “Blank checks? No. Big checks? Yes.”
Since the show premiered nine years ago, the TV landscape has shifted dramatically. Netflix is doubling down on cheaper reality and international programming. Disney is trimming its costly Marvel slate. Even Apple, which bankrolls costly series like The Morning Show and Severance at a reported $150 million to $200 million a season, is spending less. Studios are scrambling for prestige-urals like The Pitt that can be made for a relative bargain at a mere seven figures per episode. TV is scaling down. And yet Stranger Things is scaling up.
For Netflix, it’s worth the risk. Though the streamer does not release much viewership data, over two years of reporting, one thing becomes clear: Stranger Things is Netflix’s most valuable property, spawning Halloween costumes, a Tony-winning play, an upcoming animated series, and—if all goes well—at least one spin-off. For the final season, they are trying to achieve Barbie-level cultural saturation with Stranger Things partnerships: Nike sneakers, Pandora jewelry, Squishmallow stuffies, Dungeons & Dragons games, and even Palermo’s frozen pizza.
Unlike Disney or Warner Bros., Netflix doesn’t possess a deep library of intellectual property to endlessly reboot; it only started producing originals in 2012. Instead, it must license proven stories or build franchises from scratch. And the competition is catching up: in 2021, 80% of the shows on Nielsen’s weekly top 10 lists were Netflix originals, according to the Entertainment Strategy Guy, an oft-cited industry newsletter. Midway through this year, that number is down to just 52%. To hold on to subscribers, Netflix needs its own hits like Stranger Things more than ever.
That’s why the Duffer brothers’ latest move raised eyebrows. This summer they signed a deal with Paramount, which promised them theatrical releases—a dream come true for creators who once described themselves to me as “more movie guys than TV guys.” It’s a sharp break from Netflix, whose co-CEO Ted Sarandos told TIME in April that movie theaters were an “outmoded idea for most people.”
Still, the Duffer brothers say they want to continue building the Stranger Things Universe at Netflix. But how expansive—and expensive—that universe becomes may depend on how the series finale is received. “I think everyone was pretty worried, honestly,” Wolfhard tells me over Zoom a year after my set visit. “The way that Game of Thrones got torn to shreds in that final season, we’re all walking into this going, ‘We hope to not have that kind of thing happen.’” He fiddles with his oversized headphones. “But then we read the scripts. We knew that it was something special.”
Drones circle the Atlanta set, intruders trying to sneak unauthorized footage of the final season. Unlike other genre epics like House of the Dragon or Shōgun, which are based on preexisting material, nobody knows how Stranger Things will end. That’s a source of intrigue—and an opportunity for leaks. A sense of paranoia pervades the lot.
A year later in their edit bay in Los Angeles, the twins are still guarded. They spend all morning searching for a spoiler-free scene to show me, landing on a comically mundane sequence of Lucas (Caleb McLaughlin) and Robin (Maya Hawke) pushing an elevator button in a hospital. It betrays very little—except that Lucas is visiting Max (Sadie Sink), who has been comatose since the end of Season 4 and apparently remains so midway through Season 5. Dramatic musical cues imply that she will be enlisted in some plan to fight the villain. “Tony nominee Sadie Sink is too good not to keep,” says Matt, referencing Sink’s Broadway run in John Proctor Is the Villain. When I try to coax information out of Sink a few weeks later, she laughs: “They wouldn’t have kept me around if they didn’t have a purpose for me. They would have killed me off.”
The edit suite looks like a dorm room, full of fanboy figurines like a life-size Funko Pop of Stranger Things’ protagonist Eleven (played by Millie Bobby Brown) that guards the front door in her blonde wig, clutching her favorite snack, Eggo waffles. The twins sit on adjacent black couches in front of a TV. A ragged shark dog toy lies at their feet, a plaything for staff pets and perhaps an ode to one of their heroes, Steven Spielberg.
Stranger Things speaks to a generation that grew up renting VHS tapes from Blockbuster and trading Stephen King paperbacks. The show begins with the disappearance of a boy named Will (Noah Schnapp). His frantic mother (Winona Ryder) enlists the help of the town’s reluctant sheriff (David Harbour) while Will’s older brother (Charlie Heaton) recruits his crush Nancy (Natalia Dyer) and her boyfriend Steve (Joe Keery). Meanwhile, Will’s nerdy buddies encounter Eleven, a girl raised in a lab with telekinetic powers. She rescues Will from the Upside Down, a parallel dimension that threatens to swallow Hawkins whole. But the show’s dangers aren’t limited to supernatural creatures—sinister scientists, Soviet spies, and government cover-ups all loom large.
A final boss emerges: Vecna (Jamie Campbell Bower), a patient from the same lab as Eleven who has grown into a monster and is linked to every creature in the Upside Down through what the characters dub a “hive mind.” At the beginning of Season 5, Vecna has disappeared. The gang must hunt him down while avoiding the military, which has imposed a quarantine to cover up the portal that Vecna opened between the Upside Down and Hawkins.
If this all sounds like the fever dream of two boys who gorged on Wes Craven and John Carpenter, that’s because it is. The Duffer brothers, 41, grew up in Durham, N.C., with a film-buff dad and have been writing stories together since the fourth grade, when they directed a movie based on the fantasy card game Magic: The Gathering. They pointed a camcorder at friends shooting Nerf arrows and wearing Freddy Krueger masks while a boom box played the scores of Tim Burton movies. Trying to break into Hollywood, the Duffers wrote for the M. Night Shyamalan-produced TV show Wayward Pines and made a feature that got shelved for years. Frustrated by the dearth of opportunities, they created their own. The brothers pitched the show to around a dozen production companies with no success.
Levy, then known for family-friendly movies like Night at the Museum, was not in the TV business. But, in 2015, a beautifully rendered booklet outlining a limited series called Montauk landed on his desk. It included iconic images from A Nightmare on Elm Street, Close Encounters of the Third Kind, and Firestarter, all in service of a story about a missing boy. Two days later, the Duffers were sitting in Levy’s office.
“They were not a slick meeting,” says Levy. “Frankly, they seemed like two young adult brothers who had spent most of their lives talking only to each other.” They refined the pitch for then-Netflix executive Cindy Holland, who shepherded early Netflix breakouts like Orange Is the New Black and House of Cards. With a few concessions—the setting shifted from a Long Island beach town to a cheaper-to-film Indiana suburb—the company was willing to take a risk on these unknown writers if their show could add value to the streamer’s then small catalog. While most studios write big checks to proven properties with built-in audiences like Star Wars or The Lord of the Rings, Netflix’s need for homegrown hits compelled them to invest more and more into each season of Stranger Things, and it delivered. It’s now something vanishingly rare: an original blockbuster. “It’s been an advantage in a lot of ways creatively,” says Bela Bajaria, Netflix’s chief content officer. “We were always going to lean into what’s the next, big, bold idea rather than what’s the IP in the library.”
The Duffers’ pitch assured networks that the limited series would leave “no loose ends.” But the streamer saw franchise potential. “Netflix made us write this big mythology document halfway through Season 1, which at the time we really didn’t want to write,” says Ross.
Matt continues: “So we went in and pitched Season 2, and it was basically all five seasons. And Cindy just said, ‘That’s way too much.’” She advised them to spread it out. “I’m glad we did it because then we had a huge grab bag of ideas, and we sprinkled it throughout all five seasons.” (The Duffers and Holland will reunite at Paramount, where Holland now heads up streaming.)
Though the Duffers developed Stranger Things as fodder for nostalgic grown-ups, they also tapped into the magic of watching a Stephen King adaptation as a kid with your fingers covering your eyes. The tween audience only grew as each year a new crop of young viewers discovered the show in Netflix’s library. But its popularity exploded in the spring of 2022 with “Dear Billy,” an episode in which Max escapes Vecna to the tune of Kate Bush’s ’80s anthem “Running Up That Hill.” Thirty-seven years after its release, the song hit No. 1.
The Duffers attribute the success of that season in part to COVID-19 delays, which allowed them the rare luxury of finishing the scripts for the season before filming began. But the pause exacerbated a running joke among fans that the kids have clearly outgrown the bikes they ride around Hawkins. In real life, they’re adults: Schnapp is about to graduate college, McLaughlin sports a beard, and Brown is married with a baby. The brothers bristle at the critique when, they say, many shows feature 20-somethings playing teens. Still, they felt it was time to offer the fans closure. “We can’t kick any more cans down the road,” says Matt. “Every character’s arc has to be resolved.”
I’m exploring a tunnel on the set in Atlanta when I nearly trip over Barb’s body. Covered in inky black vines made partly of spray-painted pool noodles, the dummy’s lips purple and slightly agape with a giant bleeding gash on her neck, the fan-favorite character is half buried in the ground. Like Will, Nancy’s friend Barb (Shannon Purser) was pulled into the Upside Down in Season 1. Unlike Will, she never made it back. No one cared—except for the fans. #JusticeForBarb going viral was one the first indications that Stranger Things was a sensation. The Duffers didn’t get it.
“The one note that we consistently got back was, ‘What about Barb?’ And we’re like, ‘It’s a show about Will,’” says Ross, rolling his eyes.
“Netflix kept harassing us about it,” adds Matt. “And it turns out they were right.”
“We neglected her, and as such, Hawkins neglected her, and it made her that much more famous,” says Ross. And now she is back, or at least her body is.
Netflix representatives drive me in a golf cart around the sprawling Stranger Things campus. I watch what appears to be a hallucination in which Holly—Nancy and Mike’s baby sister from Season 1 who is now played by 13-year-old Nell Fisher—wanders through a labyrinthine orange rock formation in a ’50s-era blue A-line dress, reminiscent of Alice in Wonderland, blood smeared across her forehead. She turns a corner and looks in horror as Henry Creel (Bower), the person who will eventually become Vecna, staggers forward in pain.
Hilary Leavitt, the president of the Duffers’ Upside Down Pictures, begins to explain how the scene connects to the Stranger Things stage production, The First Shadow, which premiered on London’s West End before transferring to Broadway earlier this year. Holly’s old-fashioned outfit is an important detail given that Henry Creel acquired his powers in a Nevada cave in the 1950s and, later, when I visit Henry’s sister Alice’s room, there’s an Alice in Wonderland picture hanging on the wall—though I’m distracted by a Raggedy Ann doll with a missing eye and a demonic-looking stuffed bunny. As Leavitt leads me down the rabbit hole, the brothers exchange a look, and Matt half-jokingly asks Leavitt not to spoil the season.
Everyone on set is quick to mention the twins’ unusual connection. “They do finish each other’s sentences. They’ll rarely not check in with each other before rendering an opinion, but that checking in is largely nonverbal,” Levy says. “In early episodes, I don’t think they spoke to many people other than each other. They’ve grown immensely.” They also used to write scenes individually and argue over edits. It took forever. Now, they write simultaneously in the same Google doc while sitting on opposite sides of the room with headphones on, editing each other as they go. They call it working as a hive mind.
The Duffers’ fingerprints are all over the set. WSQK “The Squawk” 94.5 FM was built to mimic the Art Deco radio station from the Duffers’ hometown. “We did the mall, the arcade, the video store, the skating rink,” says production designer Chris Trujillo. “With the radio station, we’re messing with another touchstone of Americana.” Squawk will serve as the headquarters for the gang as they rebel against the military. “This is where the kids are prepping their hijinks,” says Trujillo. The Duffers add that one of the key inspirations for this season is Home Alone—specifically the booby traps. Another is Terminator 2; that movie’s star, Linda Hamilton, will play a government scientist named Dr. Kay. (Costume designer Amy Parris, while explaining the many different types of fatigues featured this season, drops hints about Dr. Kay’s mission: “There’s this sort of mercenary regime, they’re called the Wolf Pack. They’re Dr. Kay’s men who are meant to be finding Eleven.”)
The sun is setting by the time we walk into downtown Hawkins to watch the battle scene. This season, the Duffers are experimenting with a new type of shot they call “demo-vision.” Using a drone, they capture fight scenes from the perspective of a Demogorgon. In the first season, the characters played Dungeons & Dragons in a cozy basement. By Season 4, there was a lot more cardio. “I had to run up this hill—no pun intended—like 10 times. I straight up almost puked,” says Wolfhard. “I started seeing a trainer for Season 5. It’s a lot of longer sequences that involve action.”
Balancing the core of each character with the show’s evolving tentpole status hasn’t been easy. Harbour’s haunted small-town cop has transformed into an action hero who wields a flamethrower. “The model for TV is Gilligan’s Island. Gilligan is always wearing the red shirt and the bucket hat. He’s always going to respond to a situation in a Gilliganesque way,” says the actor. “Stranger Things sometimes tries to push the boundaries of that while still maintaining the character as a source of comfort.”
By midnight on set, the cast and crew have settled into that sluggish yet giddy feeling you get staying up all night at summer camp. The lights are so bright that they create the disorienting sense that it’s dawn.The Duffers debate how many takes they’ll need: Matt thinks seven, and Ross shakes his head. “More,” he groans. “How many times are we allowed to throw these guys?” he says, referring to the stuntmen in fatigues strapped to wires. “Thirteen?”
When I fly back to New York in the wee hours of the morning, I can spot the show’s floodlights from the airplane.
Schnapp was nervous about crying on camera for the first time. At 11, he was new to acting when Season 1 began filming. So Ryder stepped in. “She was also a child actor, so I think she understood the quirks of having to run to set, cry, then go take a biology test,” he says. “She was like, ‘Oh sweetie, I’ve got you.’ I still do this today.” He demonstrates the technique, holding his hands up and slowly taking five deep breaths.
Several of the young actors say they were lucky to have adults on set looking out for them. But nobody could mitigate the particular challenges of being young and operating in an adult world. “It’s just a symptom of what filmmaking can be, which is chaotic,” says Wolfhard. “As a child actor, you’re trying to make things easy for people. You don’t know how to speak up for yourself. You don’t know how to ask for a break.”
The show’s popularity didn’t help. “It was incredible and subconsciously terrifying to be 13 and all of the sudden everyone knows who you are,” he says. He remembers an overwhelming moment from Season 4: “I was having normal first-relationship struggles and juggling COVID and the show. Halfway through a scene I started hyperventilating. It was kind of like a fishbowl because a lot of the extras are fans. It culminated in sort of a panic attack.” McLaughlin, now 24, and Gaten Matarazzo, 23, pulled him aside and reassured him that they were feeling the same pressure.
That stress hasn’t changed, although the reactions of the young cast have. One difference between the first and final season? “We got along!” says Brown, laughing. “We stopped fighting.” They do admit to regressing to their younger selves on set. “When I’m around Gaten and Finn and Noah, I’m probably the most childish I’ve ever been,” McLaughlin says. “We’re doing these jokes from when we were, like, 12 years old. It’s easy because we grew up together.” The Duffers tailored the scripts to match the actors’ real-life energy.
But Brown, 21, had a slightly different experience. “[The Duffers] really got to understand the boys’ personalities,” she says. “Whereas Eleven, you can’t really write to me, because she grew up in a laboratory, and she has powers, and has such a traumatic past.”
Brown, unlike the boys, also had to face sexism. In the spring, she made a video responding to articles that accused her of looking older than her age. When asked what she would say to other young women who face trolling, she’s circumspect: “I don’t really have much to say on the matter. But I’m always going to be a source of advice from the experience I’ve been through.” Brown has carved out a successful career starring in big-budget Netflix projects but has chosen to build a life away from the limelight on a farm in Georgia with her husband, baby, and (at the time of publication) 86 animals.
Navigating the spotlight has also been complicated for Schnapp in part because of an important connection between his character and his real life. Will came out as gay last season, and Schnapp himself came out at 18—but only after spending years struggling to answer questions from journalists about his sexuality. “When I was younger, I was obviously very scared of talking about it,” he says. “They would pry and ask me, ‘Is he gay? Are you gay?’ I was 12, 13. I didn’t know what to say.”
And more recently Schnapp, now 21, has gotten pushback for posts he made in support of Israel after Oct. 7. I ask him whether he’s learned any lessons about his online presence. “I was one of the most in touch with my fan base. I just welcomed them with open arms because that’s the way I am,” he says. “It comes with pros and cons. I’m still a kid trying to figure it out. I’ll have a different answer for you in five years.”
As the young actors stare down their post-Stranger Things future, the Duffers have sought to foster their careers when possible. Sink got an offer to be in Darren Aronofsky’s The Whale while filming Season 4. Sink says she’s grateful to the showrunners for working around her schedule so she could leave for two months. “It opened up a new channel of vulnerability to work on this grounded character in a movie without special effects,” she says. “They would have gotten a much different performance out of me in Season 4 if I hadn’t done that.”
After long days of filming, much of the cast decamped to houses in a nearby neighborhood, many within walking distance of one another. Sometimes, they met up at the neighborhood bar. “Yes,” Sink, 23, says. “It might be crazy for some people to hear, but we’re old enough to drink now.”
In the spring, I attend plays starring Denzel Washington, Paul Mescal, and George Clooney. None elicit the level of frenzy I experience at Stranger Things: The First Shadow, where the audience screams to the point of drowning out dialogue whenever the name of a character from the show is mentioned. Ushers roam the aisles flashing lights at people trying to film scenes on their phones. A girl a few seats down clutches a nightmare-inducing Demogorgon plushie purchased in the lobby.
Kate Trefry, a Stranger Things writer who co-wrote the First Shadow story with the Duffers and Harry Potter and the Cursed Child scribe Jack Thorne, tells me that 60% of the primarily young theatergoers who come to the show have never been to a play before. “I think the response is the pure shock and joy of seeing something performed live for the first time,” Trefry says. “If you’ve been watching stuff on your computer your entire life, and then you go to the theater and all of a sudden, action is happening, that’s pretty visceral.”
The spectacle, which opens with flashing lights and deafening music, sets up an elaborate origin story for Vecna and ties into the final season. At the end of the show, Netflix’s “Next Episode” button appears to not-so-subtly remind the crowd to tune in this fall.
I ask Bajaria what Stranger Things’ final season needs to achieve to justify the no-doubt hefty cost. To Bajaria, the obvious benchmark is cracking Netflix’s list of the most popular shows ever. But it’s about more than just the numbers: “The other part is, do fans love it?” Netflix measures that love in metrics like a 14% boost in Eggo sales after Season 1 or a 600% search increase in Dungeons & Dragons after Season 4.
And Netflix will stoke the conversation by releasing the season in three installments: Four episodes the day before Thanksgiving, three on Christmas Day, and the series finale on New Year’s Eve. The showrunners had always planned to split the season in two, and Netflix executives suggested debuting the movie-length finale on its own to head off spoilers. “Everybody thought it was a good idea,” says Bajaria, “for people to be caught up and have that shared experience of watching it together.”
Christofer Hamilton, a streaming expert at Parrot Analytics, expects the series finale to be a “victory lap” regardless of fan reception. “Attention is attention. Even if people are up in arms, they are going to watch it,” he says. “Game of Thrones was obviously controversial. But the finale set a series record. And [the prequel] House of the Dragon has been huge. People didn’t throw up their arms and walk away.”
Given Stranger Things’ success, it’s surprising the streamer hasn’t mined the IP even more aggressively. The Duffers are producing two upcoming Netflix shows, Something Very Bad Is Going to Happen and The Boroughs, though neither ties into Stranger Things. Levy claims the creative team has turned down “opportunities that would have been low-hanging fruit but didn’t feel organic to our story.” Yet in June, the Duffers told me they did have an idea for a Stranger Things sequel. “I’m kind of surprised there hasn’t been more pressure [from Netflix],” says Matt. “They would love us to go in and pitch it, but they haven’t forced us to do it.”
I press Bajaria on why Netflix hasn’t done just that. “We’ve always talked about it loosely,” she says. “For them and for us, it was really important to make sure that all of their focus, time, and energy was being spent on making sure they deliver an incredible last season that people love.” She pauses. “But I’ll say when they’re ready, I’m ready.”
Netflix—and the fans—may have to wait. Season 1 of Stranger Things premiered nine long years ago. “We write pretty quick,” says Matt. “I’m sure most people, if they heard me say that, would laugh because they think we’re so slow. But we’re writing, basically, five to six movies in a season.” And with the Paramount deal in place, the brothers now have even more on their plates.
When I reach out in late September to both Netflix and the showrunners to ask about the franchise’s future, both decline to comment. But it is clear any continuation would demand the brothers’ involvement. “It either has to come from us or someone who comes to us super excited about an idea, not from Netflix. Otherwise you’re just making stuff to be making it, and then it’s going to diminish the brand,” Matt told me in June. “You’ve seen that too many times.”
Creatively, a long pause may not be a bad thing. Just as Ryder returned to the Beetlejuice franchise 36 years after the original—and helped it top the box office—there’s always a chance the cast could revisit the show that made them stars. “I would love to play Dustin at another point in my life. It would definitely have to be a long time from now,” says Matarazzo. “But if in 15 years they call, I would be lying if I said I wouldn’t jump on that instantaneously.” —With reporting by Simmone Shah
Stranger Things photographs by Michal Pudelka for TIME; Set design by Rastislav Matys—Razzmatazz; Fashion Direction by Milena Zuravljova; Wardrobe: Cover: Matarazzo: Issey Miyake look; Brown: Monse look, Mejuri earrings; Wolfhard: Valentino shirt, Issey Miyake pants; Schnapp: Kimia Arya look; McLaughlin: Private Policy look; Sink: Stella McCartney look; Lead group: Wolfhard: Gucci look; Sink: Beaufille look; McLaughlin: Peter Do look; Schnapp: Dolce&Gabbana look; Brown: David Koma look, Mejuri earrings; Matarazzo: Thom Browne look; Secondary group: Matarazzo: Uniqlo turtleneck, Loewe trousers; Sink: MaxMara look; McLaughlin: Thom Browne jacket, pants, shoes, Amiri sweater; Brown: Isabel Marant look, Mejuri earrings; Schnapp: YSL look; Wolfhard: Gabriela Hearst look; Brown solo: Wolford turtleneck, LaPointe shorts, Mejuri earrings; Matarazzo solo: Dior look; McLaughlin solo: Peter Do look; Schnapp solo: YSL look; Sink solo: Stella McCartney look; Wolfhard solo: Dior look
Duffer Bros photograph by Devin Yalkin for TIME
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