The Book of Henry is the equivalent of eating a cake baked with salt instead of sugar, or listening to a Beatles song where the lyrics are in Esperanto—you understand the idea of what Trevorrow was going for, but the end result is an appalling, irradiated mess, a Frankenstein’s monster version of a feel-good classic. It might be quickly forgotten as a well-meaning flop, but The Book of Henry deserves to linger—it’s like an unsettling dream you can’t quite remember, a familiar story where all the pieces just seemed out of place.
The Book of Henry honestly sounds like one of the worst movie ever made.