WASHINGTON — After bursting on the indie scene in 2012 with “Safety Not Guaranteed,” Colin Trevorrow directed “Jurassic World” into one of the biggest blockbusters of 2015, a feat that landed him “Star Wars: Episode IX” for 2019.
But first, Trevorrow attempts a smaller, suburban suspense tale in “The Book of Henry,” the type of original thriller that’s often better than those formulaic blockbusters, which is why it’s all the more disappointing that it doesn’t work, undercutting an intriguing premise with far-fetched execution. This may give Jedi fans Jurassic-sized pause, but Trevorrow’s direction isn’t the issue; it’s the script.
The story follows 11-year-old prodigy Henry Carpenter (Jaeden Lieberher), who suspects that the girl next door, Christina (Maddie Ziegler), is being abused by her stepdad Glenn Sickleman (Dean Norris), who happens to be the town sheriff. After trying to alert the school principal and authorities, who are all too eager to look the other way, Henry devises a plan to rescue Christina and convinces his single mother Susan (Naomi Watts) and shy younger brother Peter (Jacob Tremblay) to help him.
The film’s brightest spot is Jaeden Lieberher, who rivals “Gifted” child star Mckenna Grace for the most precocious character of the year. As his teacher prods, “Remind me why we can’t put you in a gifted school,” Lieberher offers a perfectly monotone reply, “Because it’s better for my psychosocial development to interact with a peer group in a normal school environment.” The role is a nice next step for a budding career after propelling Bill Murray to a Golden Globe nod in “St. Vincent” (2014).
Likewise, Jacob Tremblay similarly propelled Brie Larson to an Oscar victory in “Room” (2015), an abuse-victim role that no doubt got him cast here. Ironically, Tremblay takes a back seat to the abuse action in “Book of Henry,” often becoming a forgotten background character. At least Tremblay uses this oversight to mine raw emotion while accusing his mom of treating him like her less-favorite son.
Both child actors find touching mother-son moments with Naomi Watts, who mines sympathy as a single parent waiting tables by day and singing bedtime songs by night. Audiences will appreciate her attempt to subvert our expectations, playing the immature video gamer while her responsible 11-year-old pays the bills in the background. At one point Watts asks, “What would Henry do?” to which Tremblay replies, “No, mom, what would you do?” It’s a poignant moment for a unique character arc.
Rounding out the cast is Watts’ alcoholic waitress colleague Sarah Silverman, who’s trashy good fun spitting zingers until an odd Mrs. Robinson moment that comes out of nowhere; Lee Pace, who demonstrates warmth as a doctor despite an underdeveloped love interest subplot; and Dean Norris, who’s cold and calculating in a welcome shift to the dark side after his lovable Hank in “Breaking Bad.”
The corrupt-cop antagonist showcases the crime novelist side of screenwriter Gregg Hurwitz, who delivers a gripping puzzle of an initial premise that promises a universal theme: “Violence isn’t the worst thing in the world; it’s apathy.” Hurwitz penned the first draft back in 1998, waiting nearly 20 years for it to come to life. Now, as a debut feature screenwriter, he is learning the hard way that you can get away with certain things in novels and television series that just don’t fly on the silver screen.
While we love his refreshing attempt at an original concept amid so many formulaic superheroes, the promising setup is squandered when the script suddenly swerves into a plot twist a third of the way in. We won’t spoil the exact nature of the twist, but it changes the movie you think you’re watching.
After this twist, the plot points become increasingly far-fetched, turning a once-juicy mystery into an over-the-top yarn that unravels with exponential implausibility. Those who thought they were watching “Rear Window” are suddenly treated to a mixture of “P.S. I Love You” and “Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close,” featuring voice-over narration that sadly strains our suspension of disbelief.
It’s a shame the last two-thirds of the script aren’t as polished as the first third, because the audience is ripe for the taking. As director, Trevorrow deftly eases us into a beautiful autumn setting with an ominous chill in the air. Then, as Henry begins to suspect his nefarious neighbor, Trevorrow smartly refuses to show the abuse, leaving it off screen in favor of P.O.V. shots from the windows, horrified reaction shots of the protagonists and such artful touches as a bedroom light flashing on and off.
This craftsmanship changes after the early twist, as Trevorrow struggles to juggle the varied tones of dark comedy, dramatic thriller and romantic weeper, tugging our heart strings in a way that feels manipulative. It all builds to a tonally-confused climax that can’t possibly juxtapose the levity of a talent show with the horror of a sniper-rifle murder. That’s a tough tightrope to walk, recalling Hitchcock’s broken breadsticks amid broken fingers in “Frenzy,” but that requires a master’s touch.
Props to Trevorrow for even thinking he could do it. It’s better to go down swinging. In the end, “The Book of Henry” doesn’t lack the spine to try new things — it lacks the structural spine to pull them off.
