I was swept up in the emotional realism of it all with nothing but grounded performances from the whole cast.
However hard the talented cast may try, those aren't people up on the screen; they're candles, balloons, and marbles.
The whole thing is boring and phony, with just a couple of lines of dialogue that feel sharp.
Even in this mess of conflicting ideas, you still get a sense of the childlike wonder that drives Treverrow to tell stories. It's a rare gift, and something to help him survive calamitous setbacks like this one.
Every book needs an editor.
I began to wonder if Hurwitz and Trevorrow had ever met any children.
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.
Grotesquely phony and manipulative ...
What Trevorrow and screenwriter Gregg Hurwitz have created is just a feature-length put-on that flirts queasily with fascism.