After a gentle engaging start, The Book Of Henry makes an ill-judged move into thriller territory. But the performances, especially from Jaeden Lieberher, are strong and it delivers that rare cinematic treat: a real surprise.
Excruciatingly misjudged, insidiously comedic child-abuse death drama in which a dying kid leaves a diary for his family detailing how to take revenge on an abuser. It’s as bad as that sounds and worse.
Colin Trevorrow's deranged tearjerker finds him channelling Steven Spielberg once again.
A thinker. Can it really be as bad as it appears? Probably, is the answer.
Life is like a good story, Henry muses in narration toward the end of the film, "get the moral right, that's all that matters." This an incredible narrow parameter for good storytelling, but The Book of Henry itself doesn't even pass it.
Henry advises us of what any decent story needs. This is not something that the film comes anywhere near achieving. As the improbabilities and contrivances mount, even the performances begin to founder and the film risks leaving a very rancid aftertaste.
It is difficult to know where to start with The Book of Henry, a film so satisfied with its own toxic levels of quirkiness that all involved seem oblivious to how deranged it actually is.
The film is well acted and good looking but it is ultimately badly misjudged.
A precocious child’s voice fails to ring true in this superficial stab at tackling cancer and abuse.
The Book of Henry is a catastrophically awful film. Everyone should see it.
General release. Check local listings for show times.
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