Film reviews: The Book of Henry | Hampstead | Souvenir

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. Revolving around a child genius who devises an elaborate plan to kill his next door neighbour, this description barely scratches the surface of a plot that includes child abuse, terminal illness, comedy alcoholism, a cutesy school talent show, improbably elaborate tree house construction and a single mother being trained in the art of assassination by her dead son. If this sounds in any way intriguing, then please pause for a second, re-read the previous sentence and imagine how one might go about weaving such tonally disparate story strands into a coherent movie. If you think you have an idea, then congratulations: you’re doing better than Jurassic World’s Colin Trevorrow, who throws everything together into a sugary concoction that’s about as appetising as the peanut butter and breakfast cereal sandwiches Naomi Watts’ character makes for her kids.