The Thing About My Folks

You can’t fake love, the primary ingredient in The Thing About My Folks, a Paul Reiser-penned attempt at intergenerational rapprochement. Unfortunately, you also can’t hide gooey self-justification, no matter how hard you try. Thing is Woody Allen on a third-grade reading level. Neurosis abounds, but awareness doesn’t, and certain ”jokes” demand additional therapy: Any movie that casually equates ”a freshly bathed baby” with ”my father’s balls” cries out for another round on the couch. My Father’s Balls would have made a more appropriate title, actually: This is a father-and-son (Peter Falk and Reiser) road picture, the kind that builds to a big, inevitable ”I’m sorry.” Seems Mom (Olympia Dukakis) has mysteriously left Dad after more than 40 fairly ordinary years together, and sonny boy is inclined to pin the blame on pops. But the story, much like the marriage, isn’t about Mom: It’s about men not so much tackling responsibility as passing it off laterally, and finally pulling an end run into the schmaltz zone.