Flawed ‘Voicemails’ not totally phoned-in

     If the makers of the Netflix rom-com “Voicemails for Isabelle” were honest with themselves, they would have named this Zoey Deutch vehicle “You’ve Got Voicemails.” That’s how unabashedly it rips off the Nora Ephron hit that itself was a wholesale pilfering of Ernst Lubitsch’s “The Shop Around the Corner.” This update merely swaps out electronic devices, subs out megastars Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan with barely B-listers and relocates from New York City to San Francisco. Oh, yeah, and tosses in a dead sibling for a pinch of treacly pathos.

     It’s for all those reasons that I almost hated it. Almost! Turns out it’s not half bad, at least for a rom-com in this rom-com-averse age. Much of that is due to the sparkling chemistry generated by Deutch and Nick Robinson as Jill and Wes, a pair of upwardly mobile go-getters who ignite romantic sparks after the latter mistakenly begins receiving confessional voicemails the former believes are going to her recently deceased sister.

    Turns out that soon after Isabelle, or Izzy (Ciara Bravo) as Jill calls her, was felled by cystic fibrosis, her cell’s 10 digits were reassigned to Wes, a high-powered Austin, Texas, realtor, who, like Golden Gate prep-cook Jill, has been burning through a long succession of loser dates. It’s during one of Wes’ overnighters that he awakens to the chimes of his new device. It’s a mournful, slightly inebriated Jill tearfully phoning from high atop the Marin Headlands to remind Izzy how much she misses her.

    Wes listens to it, as well as several more of her communiques over the ensuing days, and finds himself falling for this impassioned stranger he’s come to know so intimately. And how fortunate! His boss needs Wes to fly to the City by the Bay pronto to negotiate a deal. Perfect! Even better, Wes – thanks to another of Jill’s voicemails – learns she’ll be attending a symposium on relationships led by British author Tyler Riordan (Toby Sandeman), the guy who days ago gave Jill, to quote Liz Phair, the ol’ f–k-and-run. He’ll be sorry. But Wes is enchanted by the unbridled honesty Jill displays in humiliating Tyler in front of a live audience.

     It’s a bit creepy, as after the show, Wes follows Jill to her favorite chill spot. Yup, up on the Marin Headlands overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge. What could be more romantic, or frightening? How is it that Jill isn’t startled by the sudden presence of a stranger? At night, no less. But this being a movie, it’s practically love at first sight. How could it not be with Wes using all the intelligence he’s gathered to convince Jill they have everything in common, from breakfast tacos to cornbread chicken pot pie to Robyn’s “Dancing on My Own.”

    From here, you can reliably predict the rest, including the end-of-second-act break-up triggered by Jill getting wise to how she’s being played. The script, written by director Leah McKendrick, who also plays one half of Wes’ soon-to-be-married Greek chorus of Breeda and Andy (Harry Shum Jr.), offers nothing you haven’t seen oft times before. But it’s painless, even charming at times. And McKendrick freely cops to her “Corner Shop”-lifting by having Andy refer to Wes’ situation as a “Sick reboot of ‘You Got Mail.’” With Wes correctly retorting he’s “no Tom Hanks.”

     No, he isn’t. But he does possess a certain je es sais quoi that’s perfectly in sync with Deutch’s close-to-annoying evervesence. He’s got the hair, and she the thousand-watt smile. How can they possibly come close to failing? I’ll tell you how. It’s in the avalanche of cliches McKendrick repeatedly falls back on, as well as her lame stabs at comedy. Most notably, those Gordon Ramsay-inspired rapid-fire insults uttered by the normally reliable Nick Offerman, flailing desperately to be funny as Jill’s obnoxious culinary mentor, Chef Bastian. At least he fares better than Lucas Gage as Arthur, Jill’s fellow prep cook, who she discovers firsthand has a nasty habit of crying after sex, as well as a penchant for slut shaming.

    Excise all their scenes and “Voicemails” wouldn’t suffer. In fact, it would only help erase the flick’s other major flaw – its length. At nearly two hours, it drags in places. It also takes too much time bringing Robinson and Deutch together.

     But once they do meet, Bam! McKendrick’s film comes vibrantly alive. It’s hardly novel, but it does feature two charismatic stars you can’t help but root for. Still, it will require some effort to overlook the gaping hole McKendrick forgot to close. If Izzy’s number is now assigned to Wes, when Jill phones, wouldn’t she hear a recording of Wes saying he’s unavailable before she’s forwarded to his voicemail?

     Stupid me didn’t catch that disconnect until the call ended. Some folks won’t mind, or, like me, notice. But I’ll bet many will assume they’ve reached a wrong number and hang up. For those folks, “Voicemail” will be a tough cell.  For the hopeless romantics out there, I say don’t hesitate to pick up the horn.

Movie review

Voicemails for Isabelle

Rated: Not rated

Cast: Zoey Deutch, Nick Robinson, Nick Offerman, Leah McKendrick and Harry Shum Jr.

Director: Leah McKendrick

Writer: Leah McKendrick

Runtime: 118 minutes

Where: Streaming on Netflix starting June 19

Grade: B-