I wonder if the Guardian is feeling well. Why? Because they didn’t write a single word in this review of The Book of Henry that makes my teeth ache. I’m not entirely certain that such a thing is permitted, under international law:
Note to screenwriters: if, when you are writing an 11-year-old character, it becomes necessary to remind the audience repeatedly that “he’s a child”, you may have an issue with the authenticity of the voice. In fact, it’s easier to imagine some of the dialogue in Mr Peabody & Sherman genuinely coming out of the mouth of a dog than it is to believe that a pre-teen would drawl Henry’s world-weary bons mots. That, however, is a minor quibble in this toxic swamp of cynicism and manipulation.
…OK. I’m linking this largely for the sake of ‘toxic swamp of cynicism and manipulation.’ Game respects game.
PS: I also kind of like the way that the review just stops after the second paragraph. At first I thought that I couldn’t find the rest of it. But it really does look like the reviewer said Screw it, where’s the Scotch? at that point and dared her editor to make an issue of it. Which the editor apparently declined to do.