Six or so months ago, the Mercury published a brief
tirade of mine—timed to correspond with the then-impending
release of Reno 911!: Miami—entitled “The Lennon/Garant
Walk of Shame.” Its contents recounted an array of terrible films
(Herbie: Fully Loaded, Night At The Museum, etc.) whose
final drafts had been quietly credited to the writing team of Thomas
Lennon and Ben Garant—formers of beloved sketch comedy troupe The
State, and creators of Reno 911!.
The day the article hit the streets, I received a surprise email
from Thomas Lennon. Lennon wasn’t exactly writing to rip me the new one
he was easily capable of—just to calmly explain that “writing
movies for the studios is a complicated business.” He seemed bummed. I
felt bad. Not because I said anything that I didn’t mean, but because I
hadn’t exactly said what I meant: that my ire for these films was
largely based in a disappointment rooted in a former esteem for Lennon
and Garant’s work—work seemingly so removed from how they now
make a living. And so, for the first time ever, I apologized for being
an asshole to someone I had written about. And he was nice about
it.
So it’s understandable why I’d approach the latest Lennon/Garant
opus, Balls Of Fury, with kid gloves. A ping-pong comedy with a
genital pun for a title? A no-name protagonist (Dan Fogler) who manages
to be both unlikable and heroically unfunny? A squandered Christopher
Walken guest-spot? There’s got to be something nice to say about
this movie, hasn’t there? But as much as I would like to be charitable,
the only thing Balls‘ 90 laugh-less minutes really has going for
it is it’s merciful brevity.
Oh, and Thomas, in case you’re reading this: I’m truly sorry I
didn’t like anything about this one either. It’s nothing personal, I
promise.