I Love You, I Leave You

If you were asked to name your favourite story, chances are it would be a romance – an epic one, perhaps, a Greek tragedy, a Shakespearean affair, Romeo and Juliet. For centuries, we have been conditioned to treat romantic love as the highest form of human connection: the stuff of poetry, the foundation of dynasties, the measure of a life well lived. What, then, is the status of friendship in this canon of passion and heroics? Moris Freiburghaus’ documentary I Love You, I Leave You turns away from the romance plot to honour the endurance of friendship, asking what it means to stand by someone through instability and pain, and what shared responsibility entails.

The documentary feels distinctly contemporary in its attention to non-normative themes, centring on a friendship between the filmmaker and his friend Dino Brandão, and on the mental health of a mixed-race man who is perceived as Black. That distinction matters, because perception shapes systemic power. In the opening scene, Dino, a Swiss–Angolan musician, performs onstage. The footage dissolves into shaky, handheld fragments – scenes from a trip to Angola, a manic episode, moments impossible to order. This disorienting sequence briefly immerses us in the chaos of mania: jumbled thoughts, blurred vision, a torrent of overlapping events. The queasiness it leaves behind echoes Dino’s own disorientation.

The camera steadies, as if exhaling, and we find ourselves in Zurich, nine months later. Dino sits outside a shop with his father and a friend. He has returned from Angola, but equilibrium has not. His father has come at the request of Dino’s worried sister, who argues with him through a phone screen. These early moments sketch the essentials: Dino refuses medication, resists institutionalisation, and moves through a city where being a Black man renders him hyper-visible and vulnerable. These conditions – psychological, social, and structural – interact and overlap throughout the film, recurring in a circular motion.

Freiburghaus exposes the weight of systemic bias not only within law enforcement but also across medical and institutional systems. Dino says, «as a Black man in Switzerland, my life isn’t worth much». Freiburghaus himself becomes part of this negotiation as he calls the police and the psychiatric clinic, attempting, often in vain, to address the gaps in their interventions. The documentary underscores the difficulty of providing meaningful help when racism and perception shape both access and safety.

The structure alternates between Dino’s self-shot footage and Moris’ observational lens, capturing both Dino and himself. The contrast between intimacy and distance provides multiple angles on the narrative, highlighting the complexity of a protagonist who is at once self-aware and unreliable. Dino’s reflections on his own state – «if you feel the way you feel, why must it be wrong?” – are lucid, challenging the viewer’s assumptions about normality and adaptation. As the story unfolds, the strain on Dino’s network, especially on Moris and his father, becomes palpable, highlighting the weight of responsibility. In this way, it is interesting to see how governmental and institutional reliance in the European context can fall apart. In the gaps where protection fails, it falls to the community to offer care: parents, siblings, and friends.

Freiburghaus captures long stretches of companionship between himself and Dino – making music, talking, waiting – where friendship itself becomes both subject and method. Yet it is impossible to constantly look after someone who has their own will and agency. Ultimately, Dino is detained by the police and hospitalised. One of the film’s most powerful moments occurs when Moris films himself in his room, on speakerphone with the police as Dino is about to be arrested. Moris sits there, helpless, aware of the danger yet unable to find another solution. The scene carries immense moral weight, asking what it means to care for someone when every available option risks harm. Cinematically, the quiet room where Moris sits, full of regret and turmoil, contrasts sharply with the tension on the other end – the police, the adrenaline, Dino’s voice. The speakerphone links these worlds, and Moris is caught in between, trapped by circumstance and conscience.

I Love You, I Leave You unfolds as a circular narrative that lingers beyond the documentary’s final frame. It raises urgent questions about responsibility, care, and the moral limits of friendship. Its central achievement lies in expanding the viewer’s perspective, showing that standing by someone is not only an act of loyalty but also a negotiation with uncertainty, risk, and the complexity of human life.