Just because a story is true doesn't mean it's interesting. And just because it might be interesting doesn't mean it should be fictionalized. And just because it's fictionalized doesn't mean it should be committed to film. Based on a true story by Davy Rothbart, Kyle Patrick Alvarez's new film tells the tale of a shy, introverted wannabe author named, you guessed it, Davy Rothbart, who strikes up a phone sex relationship with a woman named Nicole who randomly calls his hotel room one night. The central performance by Brian Geraghty as Davy is extremely lived-in: Davy is a creepy, uncomfortable nerd who wants to be an author, but can barely relate to anyone in real life without insulting them, running away, or a combination of both. So it makes sense that Davy would fall full throttle into a fantasy relationship rather than a real one. What doesn't make sense is why every other character seems so invested in Davy's well-being, given that he is a completely unlikable misanthrope. From a one-night stand (Marguerite Moreau) who is inexplicably charmed by Davy despite his constant anger towards her, to Davy's brother's girlfriend (Jeanette Brox) who seems to like Davy a lot more than his one-note annoying brother (Kel O'Neill) does, the women in Davy's life are sweet, understanding, and seem to really, really like Davy. Yet Alvarez's script gives no indication why we, the audience, should like Davy at all, so the relationships come off as incongruous. Also incongruous is David Morrison's often gorgeous cinematography and Alvarez's slipshod direction. While Morrison beautifully frames and lights Geraghty for long phone conversations and monologues, creating something rather transcendent out of his banal conversations, Alvarez seems far more interested in the banal than the transcendent. Hey, isn't it funny how we sometimes pack socks into suitcases, Alvarez seems to be saying, or how ridiculous diners are? This sort of thing, this indie-minded "regular life is silly to artists" bit has been played to death, and weighs the movie down when we spend long stretches focusing on nothing but Davy and his brother exiting a motel. It's meant to be poetic, but it comes off as indulgent, and, worse than that, boring. So while Geraghty's performance and Morrison's cinematography shine throughout, Alvarez's unfocused direction eventually weighs down the movie with a series of annoying indie movie cliches, an inconsistent tone, and poor plotting. This is the sort of story that might be shocking, touching, or even hilarious if told by a friend - but instantly ends up dead on the screen.