The Book of Henry had promising elements within its opening act that were quickly dismantled once that event occurred. The film then free falls into a genre-bending mess where it does not know what film it wants to become.
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.
A nervy, willfully preposterous study of motherhood and loss, "The Book of Henry" recklessly shifts between tones and genres, never predictably but rarely satisfyingly.
With a plot far too dark for kids, and an approach that's often too mild to satisfy adults, the result is a film as uneven as the Rocky Mountain foothills.
