Emanuel Diez and Hernán Goldfrid seem content with the superficial pleasures of their story—a satisfaction that feels, in a way, tediously self-indulgent.
Ulises Verón (Ricardo Darín), a renowned therapist, has lost faith in the traditional psychological tools used to treat his patients effectively. The root of his disillusionment is revealed in the opening scene of *Lo dejamos acá* (Let’s Leave It Here), when Ulises declines an award, believing he could have done more for a patient who recently died while hiking. Unable to shake the feeling that conventional therapy failed his patient, Ulises begins to question whether psychoanalysis—with its absolute reliance on the spoken word—is truly adequate for helping those who seek his help.
Director: Hernán Goldfrid
Writer: Emanuel Diez
Stars: Ricardo Darín, Diego Peretti, Antonia Bengoechea
Should he have talked more with his patient? Was there anything else he could have done in his role as a therapist? Ulises has no definitive answers, but he arrives at one firm conviction: words alone are no longer enough to help those who seek the services of a professional psychoanalyst. "I need action. We must be the change," he declares with determination. This motto translates into physical actions that drive the plot and give meaning to the title, *Lo dejamos acá*. Needless to say, if you haven’t seen the film yet, proceed at your own risk.
The film, written by Emanuel Diez and Hernán Goldfrid, is full of promise that never quite fully materializes. In the character of Ulises, the filmmakers have created a dedicated professional who takes his commitment to the extreme. Ulises crosses every ethical boundary to develop a form of "invasive therapy," inserting himself into his patients' private lives in an attempt to resolve their problems effectively. When a woman complains about her husband and the stress caused by her domestic life, Ulises confronts the man in a restaurant and bluntly demands that he leave his wife. ...argues that the man lives in a "cage" and must break free—for the sake of both of them.
In another instance, a woman speaks of her strained relationship with her mother, prompting Ulises to arrange a face-to-face meeting in which he encourages the daughter to openly express what troubles her about their bond. Initially, the results are highly positive. Both women express satisfaction, and Ulises begins to believe that his methods are working remarkably well.
Consequently, when Martín Bouchard (Diego Peretti)—a highly successful author—arrives at Ulises’s office complaining of writer’s block, the therapist’s next move seems almost inevitable. First, he takes the time to understand Martín’s routine: the author drinks heavily before writing, then reviews and edits his work the following morning while sober. Ulises then begins writing Martín’s novel for him. After the author has gone to sleep—having jotted down, in a drunken state, whatever happened to cross his mind—Ulises sneaks into his home with a USB drive and replaces Martín’s words with a story of his own.
Martín suspects nothing, yet he is left stunned upon discovering what he believes he wrote the previous night while under the influence of alcohol. When this happens for the first time, Martín visits Ulises’s office and critiques "his own" text, describing it as—among other things—overly sophisticated, hyper-intellectual, lacking in rhythm, slow, and boring. Ulises takes the criticism to heart, refines his prose, and crafts a better story, which Martín finds to his liking. Night after night, the ritual of replacing Martín’s words continues until the novel is complete.
Let us reflect on the ideas that emerge from these scenes. At play here is the concept of ghostwriting: receiving credit for work that is not, in reality, one’s own. When Martín finally confronts Ulises, complaining that his greatest work is not truly his own, we catch a glimpse of the lament of a tormented artist who realizes he is being celebrated for a creation he did not compose. And what of Ulises? He, too, could be considered an "artist"—so obsessed with his "art"—and with using it to connect with his "audience" (his patients) in a direct, precise, and emotional way—that he is willing to cross any boundary in pursuit of "quality."
Furthermore, *Therapy Done Right* is conceived as a dark comedy; after all, it would be absurd to apply the conventions of a prestige drama to a premise such as this. Yet, Goldfrid fails to develop the fascinating ideas that form the core of the story, nor does he manage to make the film particularly entertaining. Regrettably, those behind the film sacrifice both the promise of intellectual depth and the prospect of engaging entertainment, opting instead for a simple, watered-down dramedy, weighed down by elements.
Despite Ulises’s decisions—which are questionable from both a moral and an ethical standpoint—the film itself is remarkably polished. Even the resolution feels overly curated, too tidy. Diez and Goldfrid seem content with the superficial pleasures of their own story—a satisfaction that comes across as tediously self-indulgent. This not only prevents the film from reaching its true potential but also keeps it from leveraging its own material to provide, at the very least, some lighthearted entertainment. There is no joy to be found in watching this film, let alone in reflecting upon it.
Perhaps the one thing Diez and Goldfrid could have learned from Ulises is his drive to be the best in his field. Or, given the sincerity and zeal with which Ulises approaches solving every problem, maybe they should have just let the therapist direct the picture. If Martín’s novel—which, in reality, was written by Ulises—can garner unanimous critical acclaim, who’s to say that a dark comedy penned by Ulises wouldn’t have received rave reviews from everyone? Quick—hand the director’s chair over to the therapist and release "Ulises’s Version: Therapy Done Right" on Netflix! If it turns out to be any good, we could simply call it "Cinema Done Right."
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