Davy, a twenty-eight year old white male author is on a road trip with his brother to promote his collection of short stories, when one night, in a motel, he gets a random phone call for sex and embarks on a series of phone call encounters with a voice called Nicole. Inexperienced, pronouncing quite often the word "embarassing", he seems unable to find his way with embodied, to put it that way, women. The phone calls persist, one way always, then cease after Davy gets furious about the unreal premise of such a "relationship." Things, days drag, until weeks later Nicole calls back, and they finally arrange a revelatory meeting.
With a cinematic vocabulary proper for indie rock videos, and with a deceptively minimal approach, Alvarez may lure us into believing his film mode fits, even converts the story into a Raymond Carver one. There may be the random, fleeting and nostalgic empathy his stories exemplify, but here this roots into fully fledged individualization in the final confrontation.
Aided with a sensitive cast and armed with Brian Geraghty's most tender and haunted and Eugene Byrd's rustling, miraculous performance, the film from indie isolation and generic alienation transforms masculine identity's vulnerability and sense of precarious confrontation into poignant human recognition. The final scene, impossibly delicate and difficult to handle, preserving a sense of secrecy that signifies shared affect, is an instant classic. A very moving, delightful film.
(The opening credits are also pleasurable: tactile, from the snap-shot rhythm accompanying the soundtrack to the traveling of the camera revealing fragments of pulp fiction covers, as if tenderly mocking the human erotic interest, they are the most meaningful opening credits I have seen since Croneberg's "Spider" Rorschach opening.)
With a cinematic vocabulary proper for indie rock videos, and with a deceptively minimal approach, Alvarez may lure us into believing his film mode fits, even converts the story into a Raymond Carver one. There may be the random, fleeting and nostalgic empathy his stories exemplify, but here this roots into fully fledged individualization in the final confrontation.
Aided with a sensitive cast and armed with Brian Geraghty's most tender and haunted and Eugene Byrd's rustling, miraculous performance, the film from indie isolation and generic alienation transforms masculine identity's vulnerability and sense of precarious confrontation into poignant human recognition. The final scene, impossibly delicate and difficult to handle, preserving a sense of secrecy that signifies shared affect, is an instant classic. A very moving, delightful film.
(The opening credits are also pleasurable: tactile, from the snap-shot rhythm accompanying the soundtrack to the traveling of the camera revealing fragments of pulp fiction covers, as if tenderly mocking the human erotic interest, they are the most meaningful opening credits I have seen since Croneberg's "Spider" Rorschach opening.)