This break from convention gives The Book of Henry unusual depth and sophistication in dealing with significant social issues, including the loss of a child from illness, the unwillingness of bystanders to stop child abuse, the meaning of parental responsibility, redemption, and the validity of vigilante justice. The Book of Henry is a conscious genre bender and does a remarkable job weaving the character arcs and personal journeys together to create a complete story and movie.

The film begins with a story revolving around an 11-year old boy genius, Henry (Jaeden Lieberher, Midnight Special, The Confirmation) and his younger brother Peter (Jacob Tremblay, Room, Shut In), both of whom live in upstate New York with their single mother, Susan (Naomi Watts, Mulholland Drive, 21 Grams, The Impossible). Susan has all but abdicated her role as mother, allowing Henry to step in as a de facto father figure by virtue of his intelligence and precociousness. Henry’s smarts have enabled him to create a nice financial nest egg for his family, but his mother insists on working at a local diner as a waitress. Thus, the opening minutes suggest The Book of Henry is perhaps a redemption story about Susan told from the point of view of her children.

Henry, however, discovers that Christina, the girl next door played by dancer Maddie Ziegler in her debut film role, is sexually abused by her stepfather Glen (Dean Norris, Breaking Bad, Little Miss Sunshine, Sons of Liberty). Driven by a strong sense of justice and ethics, Henry attempts to enlist his mother and other adults to help Christina, but to no avail. His frustration mounts as he grapples with intransigence, disbelief, and apathy. Adults either don’t believe an eleven year old, or are afraid to intervene. The stepfather, after all, is the police commissioner and well connected in the local community, creating a specter of retribution. As the principal of Henry’s school tells him, she needs more than the words of an 11 year old before she can accuse the police chief of child sexual abuse.

The principal’s practical ripost to Henry’s sense of injustice puts the question of personal responsibility at the center of the story and the motivations of the characters. Having exhausted all avenues, frustrated by the lack of cooperation from adults (and agencies), Henry resolves to kill Christina’s stepfather. Now, The Book of Henry transitions into a Hitchcock-style suspense movie. (This is where many film critics seem to have jumped ship.)

But suspense quickly turns to tragedy. As Henry plots out the murder, taking notes in his journal, he is diagnosed with late-stage brain cancer and passes away quickly, too quickly for him to carry out his plan. (These scenes are also among the film’s most poignant and emotionally wrought, a testament to the directing skills of director Colin Trevorrow, Jurassic World, Star Wars: Episode IX.)

Henry’s unexpected death dramatically shifts the film yet again to the point of view of Susan, who is emotionally unprepared to deal with his death let alone the full responsibility of parenting Peter and saving Christina. The remainder of the movie focuses on Susan’s coming to terms with Henry’s death, her challenges assuming the role of a parent, and her fumbling attempts to grapple with the consequences of Henry’s solution to ending Glen’s abuse of Christina.

The Book of Henry wrestles with enormously complicated personal and social issues, and the screenwriter Greg Hurwitz (crime novelist and comic book writer, Orphan X, Batman: The Dark Knight) has masterfully weaved together varied individual character journeys to tell this layered and nuanced story. Henry goes from boy genius with the confidence to accomplish almost anything, to a frustrated pre-teen committed to an outlandish murder plot, to a scared child facing his own heartbreaking mortality. Susan’s arc takes her from irresponsibility enabled by her son’s unique abilities, to a parent struggling to reset her relationships and reground herself in the reality of parenting. All the supporting players have meaningful character arcs as well (including the stepfather), creating tension that pushes the story forward.

Amidst this complexity, The Book of Henry doesn’t lose its grip on some of the weightiest issues in civil society: What are our individual responsibilities when our institutions are corrupt? What lines can be drawn in the name of justice and the protection of human life? Does the goal of saving of one human life from abuse and trauma justify the taking of another life? What responsibilities do those working within corrupt institutions have to intervene for the sake of justice, irrespective of the personal or professional risk?

Henry’s perspective is clear. When challenged by an adult claiming that violence should be avoided at all costs, he says the one thing worse is apathy in the face of injustice. It’s up to his mother to test the truth of Henry’s statement.

The Book of Henry is an ambitious film that dares to threaten the conventions of modern filmmaking. The movie is part coming of age, part tragedy, part Film Noir, and a lot Hitchcockian suspense. Some critics call this a “mess,” and lament the film doesn’t know “what it wants to be.” In fact, screenwriter Hurwitz and director Trevorrow know exactly what the film should be and keep it focused and cohesive. The second part (more Hitchcock) is intimately tied to the first part (tragedy).

While not perfect, The Book of Henry deserves a far wider audience than its disappointing box office suggests. Viewers on Rotten Tomatoes give this movie stronger marks than critics by a 3:1 margin. While viewers are sometimes more generous because they reward entertainment over craft, in this case they may well have allowed themselves the latitude to enjoy a complex plot and story structure more typical of suspense novels than remain trapped in filmmaking conventions and genres.

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Nevertheless, the idealism and optimism embedded in the original Star Trek gripped the imaginations of its fans. A short-lived animated series followed from 1973–74, and then a string of feature films beginning in 1979 led to the four independent television series: Next Generation (1987–94), Deep Space Nine (1993–99), Voyager (1995–2001), and Enterprise (2001–05). By 2016, 13 features made up Star Trek’s film canon. Combined, they have generated $2.2 billion in worldwide revenues on production budgets of $720 million. The cultural and commercial impact of the movie franchise is undeniable in 2016, despite the commercial precariousness of its first decade.

The films, however, have struggled among critics and peers. The first release, unimaginatively titled Star Trek: The Motion Picture, scored just 47% on Rotten Tomatoes, although this was higher than the embarrassingly low score of 21% give to The Final Frontier (1989). In fact, only two films—First Contact (1996) and Star Trek “reboot” (2009)—have earned more than 90% on the Rotten Tomatoes critics meter. None of the films has been nominated for major acting, direction, or screenwriting Academy Awards, and only one film has won an Oscar (for Best Makeup). This misfortune contrasts with the critical success of the original series, which was nominated for 11 Emmys and won three Hugo Awards, an NAACP Image Award, and a Best Original Teleplay from the Writers Guild of America. Subsequent Star Wars television series also won several awards, adding up to 31 Emmys for the entire TV franchise.

How does the most recent addition to the film canon, Star Trek: Beyond, fare? Not well, in my view. While critics have given it higher ratings than most of the films in the franchise, Beyond is unlikely to score Academy Awards or nominations. This is probably good for libertarians and liberty, although Roddenberry, who left earth for the final frontier in 1991, would likely have been disappointed.

Beyond is an entertaining romp through space, with far more action and adventure than social commentary. The film brings back the cast from Into Darkness (2013), the 13th film in the movie franchise and third in the so-called “reboot,” but it is directed by veteran action filmmaker Justin Lin, perhaps best known for directing the highest-grossing films in the Fast & the Furious franchise.

Beyond is supposed to invoke the artistic feel of the original television series, inspiring a sense of wonder and awe about space, its potential and danger. I think it succeeds on this level, using the plot device of a rescue mission to send the USS Enterprise and her crew to the edges of the universe. Well-crafted special effects, for example, combine with solid acting to provide a level of suspense that engages viewers as the starship makes its precarious way through a nebula.

Most of Beyond, however, relies on traditional action sequences and conventional plot devices, not dramatic tension between the characters. The movie is saved by solid acting rather than by clever, nuanced storylines. The Enterprise’s crew projects the noble unity and trust that Roddenberry envisioned in his idealistic world. (Such traits and behaviors are not unique to the Star Trek universe or Roddenberry’s vision; they are common during periods of intense group stress, when life-and-death decisions determine collective survival.)

The film hasn’t jettisoned the naive optimism or utopianism of the original series, but they are more of a backdrop than central to the conflict. The embedded political philosophy or liberal values don’t drive the plot or storyline. Indeed, the antagonist—Krall, a mutated human/alien creature—plays on screen more like a bitter, self-absorbed psychopath than a representative of a serious alternative world-view. In contrast, the Romulans and Klingons from the Star Trek of yore represented entire civilizations built on an alien Weltanschauung that directly clashed with the values of liberty, democracy, and equality that Roddenberry used to underpin the idealism of the United Federation of Planets.

The dialogue in Beyond attempts to draw out more substantive tensions between the values of unity, loyalty, and cooperation. Krall’s disillusionment with these values is crucial to his motivations, but they are not a threat to a social system. At risk are the lives of a deep-space starbase, not the United Federation of Planets. Krall’s drone fleet is undone by good old ingenuity, not the dogma of Roddenberry’s version of liberal progressivism. His goal of destroying the Federation plays more like a psychopath’s delusion than the reality of the threat he poses. Moviegoers empathize with the destruction of hundreds of thousands of innocents on the starbase, but the survival of the Federation is never really in doubt.

Beyond works within Roddenberry’s idealism but doesn’t push the boundaries far enough to keep the film from becoming a conventional, if solid, science fiction adventure. The Star Trek franchise seems to have lost its luster as social commentary, and this is probably for the better. The idea of a pan-universe system of governance modeled in the United Nations has been tested and found wanting practically since its founding.

Society has progressed along most of the social values that Roddenberry embraced when he scripted the original series, but not because a paternalistic, benign quasi-military government has carefully managed this transition. If the ideals that defined the counter-cultural themes of Star Trek half a century ago had became the lodestar to the modern films of the franchise, we would likely yawn and find it harder to enjoy a good sci-fi romp through the universe.

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Guns for self defense figure prominently in the Civil War period drama “Free State of Jones”

In a pivotal scene in the film Free State of Jones, three white men are chasing the recently freed slave Moses down a dirt road in immediate post-Civil War Mississippi. What is notably missing from Moses’s hands is a gun, a symbolic feature embedded so thoroughly in the narrative of the film that it could be considered a pivotal supporting player. The next scene shows Moses’s feet dangling in mid-air after he has been lynched for his “crime” of registering free blacks to vote.

From my vantage point in the movie theater, this sequence dramatically showed the civil rights foundation for the Second Amendment, or at least an artistic validation of the main theme behind books such as Stephen Halbrook’s Securing Civil Rights: Freedmen, the Fourteenth Amendment and the Right to Bear Arms. This is all the more remarkable because, from what I can tell, nothing in the background of the actors, producers, director, or screenwriters suggests they are vocal Second Amendment advocates (although I could be wrong and invite readers to shed any light they may have on this). From the director’s point of view, I am sure these sequence are intended to show the human consequences of the terrorism unleashed upon African-Americans as whites established American apartheid in the South after emancipation through Jim Crow laws.

The scene contrasts stylistically and artistically with another movie now playing in theaters: AmeriGeddon. The film, directed by veteran actor Mike Norris, is the son of well-known conservative actor/producer/martial artist Chuck Norris. The film was produced by and features Gary Heavin, a Texas businessman and Ernst & Young Entrepreneur of the Year (2004) who began producing “movies that make a difference.” Presumably that means conservative in focus and theme.

Nothing in AmeriGeddon is nuanced or subtle. The directing, dialogue, and plot clobbers viewers with its core message that American political leadership is a Trojan Horse for a global terrorist cabal subverting its values and freedoms under the noses of an unsuspecting and inattentive public. Donald Trump meet Agenda 21 and, for good measure, throw in Walker Texas Ranger to kick some Russian and Chinese butt.

The film fails on many levels, some of them related to surprisingly low production values and inattention to detail (given the experience of the principals behind the production). Films need not have big budgets or be flawless to be good, compelling, or commercially successful. The Shallows, with a production budget of $17 million, opened around the same time but generated $54 million in domestic box office revenues and opened to strong reviews. Good films, however, must have a good story and directors, producers, and screenwriters who know how to translate that story onto the big screen. This is where I think The Free State of Jones succeeds and AmeriGeddon fails.

Storytelling is an art, and a good storyteller can convey a point with subtlety and finesse, often without the reader, listener, or viewer even explicitly knowing which values are in play. Not everyone would take the scene in which Moses is lynched as a statement in favor of the Second Amendment, although advocates of self-defense and gun rights can and should. In another scene in Free State of Jones, which is based on a true story, Newton Knight (Matthew McConaughey), the white protagonist, leads a group of freedmen into the Jones County, Mississippi, courthouse to vote. He’s carrying a rifle. When the white men controlling the town try to intimidate the free blacks into not voting, Knight makes it clear he will use the gun to protect their right to vote.

Symbolically, largely through visual storytelling—showing, not telling—the role of the gun as self-defense against oppression becomes pivotal to a story about real historical events, even without the lead characters saying anything explicit about the gun. The visual impact of the gun complements the dialogue and action, increasing the tension and adding to the film’s forward momentum.

In contrast, AmeriGeddon’s directors and screenwriters use a proverbial jack-hammer to drive home their pro-gun, global conspiracy message, overwhelming the storytelling elements of the film. The movie opens up with the lead character implausibly berating a congressional committee for not taking seriously reports that supposedly show America’s vulnerability to terrorist attacks and an impending takeover of the country. In another sequence, an elite military unit trains for a martial law scenario by seizing guns from everyday patriots identified by the pro–Second Amendment signs on full display on their doors. Because the ideas driving the movie are so obvious, movie goers can predict virtually every step in the scene. The film has little suspense, and the tension is driven by familiar plot devices.

This approach contrasts with conservative and libertarian documentary filmmaking, a medium that embraces ideas as a central and often a visible aspect of storytelling. Dinesh D’Souza’s 2016: Obama’s America is a case in point, generating $33 million in box office revenues on its way to become the highest grossing conservative documentary despite being panned by critics. Korchula Production’s well-received documentary on the precarious state of free speech in America, Can We Take A Joke?, may achieve commercial success for similar reasons—the right medium for the message.

Nevertheless, the scenes in Free State of Jones show that pro-liberty values and ideas can work in narrative film. Libertarian- and conservative-minded producers and writers, however, need to pay more attention to crafting their stories and recognizing that a well-drawn story will do a much better job than lecturing if they want to reach a broad audience.

A final note and request: Please share in the comment section of this blog any recommendations you may have for well-crafted narrative films that promote liberty, freedom, and limited government. I’ll do my best to watch them.

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