I’ve neglected My World of Flops over the past couple of months but I had to bring it back for The Book of Henry because while I write many, many columns devoted to terrible movies, The Book of Henry poignantly and hilariously embodies what this column is all about. If Trevorrow had more self-awareness he would have sent me a screener for the film in a package with the words “For Your Consideration” on it because while there was a zero percent chance of The Book of Henry winning Oscars, there was a roughly one hundred percent chance that The Book of Henry would be covered in My World of Flops.

The Book of Henry is a film of lunatic ambition, a morbidly fascinating, regrettably original trainwreck that invariably makes the wrongest, craziest choice, and then commits to it with absolute conviction, beginning with its delusional certainty that when it comes to cinematic precocity, no amount can ever possibly be enough, let alone too much.

Wil Wheaton should send Trevorrow and screenwriter Greg Hurtwitz flowers because thanks to them, Star Trek: The Next Generation’s Wesley Crusher is no longer the poster boy and gold standard for insufferably precocious know-it-all brats audiences are supposed to like and admire, if not worship and revere, yet inspire vitriolic contempt, even seething hatred, rather than affection.