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.
Continue reading So, apparently the Book of Henry was pretty wretched.