Voicemails for Isabelle, 2026.
Written and Directed by Leah McKendrick.
Starring Zoey Deutch, Nick Robinson, Nick Offerman, Lukas Gage, Harry Shum Jr., Ciara Bravo, Leah McKendrick, Megan Danso, Toby Sandeman, Spencer Lord, Gil Bellows, Tanis Dolman, Raine Mateo, Alice Comer, Iris Everly, Chelsea Brown, Danny Fehsenfeld, Gabriel Prevost-Takahashi, Shane Dean, Chirag Naik, and Calix Fraser.
SYNOPSIS:
A young woman’s hilariously confessional voicemails to her late sister are unknowingly redirected to a stranger, who begins to fall in love fromafar.
The concept of a grieving woman leaving voicemails to a dead sibling as a coping mechanism, which are actually being heard by a handsome man now assigned that cell number, in the absence of the deceased, is hardly breaking ground or anything new for rom-coms. Admittedly, the whole premise of Voicemails for Isabelle has the unfortunate aura of ” are we really doing this again?” However, that is why movies are watched before passing judgment, as it turns out this approach to mostly familiar genre material is elevated by its central performances and writer/director Leah McKendrick, a rising filmmaker known for starring in her debut behind the camera (Scrambled, about freezing eggs while navigating the dire dating scene), bringing that same sense of grounded messiness to a relatable woman protagonist while also knowing when to play scenes for absurdist comedy and when to go for charm or add an emotional touch.
Most filmmakers would simply not bother with fleshing out the sisterhood driving much of the actions of aspiring chef Jill (Zoey Deutch), somewhat losing faith in herself and all sense of direction without the titular Isabelle (Ciara Bravo before dying and through saved voicemails) to call and not only ramble to about her life (especially the dating parts), but also be reined in to be with family and avoiding hooking up with sketchy men. Setting up this stirring sisterhood bond comes before setting up any key romantic angle, taking viewers to a series of flashbacks beginning when Jill and odds-defying cancer-diagnosed Isabelle are young kids (played by Alice Comer and Iris Everly), also establishing Robyn’s “Dancing On My Own” as “their song”, a sentimental force uniting them in joy, laughter, and dancing whether they are together or apart.
And while I wouldn’t necessarily push back that some aspects of this opening could be perceived as emotionally manipulative, it’s also not fair to Leah McKendrick and whoever else worked on fleshing out this highly specific bond involving a terminally ill sibling, as this feels raw, as if it could only come from someone who has experienced the same or a similar emotional dynamic even when going for it’s big tearjerker moments. It would be as petty as getting mad at the opening of Pixar’s Up, going straight for the heart. Is there something cheap about it? Perhaps, but one also knows when it’s coming from an unearned place of dishonesty, which isn’t the case here at all.
Everyone here apparently understands that the terminally ill (or anyone with a debilitating illness or disability) often lives vicariously through a close friend or loved one, that dark and sometimes tactless humor is typically deployed as a coping mechanism to get through another miserable day, and how much tighter that bond becomes when someone is relied on. Part of the reason Jill wants to be a chef is that she ended up routinely cooking for Isabelle, experimenting with unorthodox ingredient ideas. When Isabelle makes her early exit (at some point in her early 20s), it is felt in a way that both pushes the story forward for Jill, now with questionable decision-making, made clear in juxtaposition with the prologue.
While regularly belittled by a sexist chef (Nick Offerman, amusingly exaggerated in the role) in a competitive training program, Jill magnetically is drawn to some of the worst men out there, ranging from self-absorbed cooking rivals (Lukas Gage), a deceptive trickster podcaster (Toby Sandeman) giving bogus relationship advice under the guise of trying to sleep with lonely trainwreck women, and just about anyone dangling her dreams of living out one of the romantic comedies her and Isabelle endlessly quoted (that referential, self-awareness is also part of what makes the tone work when syrupy).
Most of this is a disaster, and situations that would have been less so if Jill had her sister to call and go home to. One particular sequence sees her excitedly proud (there is an energetic no-filter approach by Zoey Deutch that plays into what makes her so radiant as a performer, a gifted talent practically born for the genre) that she rejected the love-bombing, too-good-to-be-true sexual advances of someone she shouldn’t quite trust yet, only to give in a few minutes later. On the other end listening to these voicemails is Texas-based real estate agent Wes (Nick Robinson), who is, yes, handsome, conflicted, well-meaning, and genuinely taken aback by the chaotic personality he constantly hears.
Somewhat jaded by romance while set to be the best man at a wedding for friends (played by Harry Shum Jr. and Leah McKendrick), Wes falls into the familiar plotting of a guy who likes a woman but makes all the wrong, sometimes undeniably creepy choices that would never be redeemable if he didn’t look like Nick Robinson or have a respectable well-paying job, taking it upon himself to go on a business trip to San Francisco, meet Jill (after some light social media stalking), and apply what he has learned about her through that and the voicemails to get in with her, provide motivation, show her the romance she wants, and bring general stability back to her life. It even turns out that he lost his mother when he was young, so some trauma-bonding is also involved.
Admittedly, this is less slimy in execution and is mostly depicted as harmless, with Wes portrayed as someone who wants to tell her the truth but lacks the courage to do so, and who also worries about the fallout. Fortunately, during a passionate moment, he steps away from having sex, as Leah McKendrick likely knows that would be a bridge too far that the character and film could never recover from.
The rest ofthe voicemails for Isabelle play out in familiarity, with winning chemistry and the occasional funny scene (the revenge on the podcaster serving as a highlight), or without knowing that having a storybook romance isn’t the answer. Even at a somewhat long-winded two hours, the personal journey Jill goes on, knowing that she has to first work on herself without a man, is vital to the story having its head in the right place. There is an acknowledgment of how she has slipped and changed in some areas without Isabelle, making this a raucous but observational character study. Most of all, Leah McKendrick intelligently knows there is only one way to end this film, matching the opening’s emotional thrust.
Flickering Myth Rating– Film: ★ ★ ★ / Movie: ★ ★ ★
Robert Kojder
