No Dogs Or Italians Allowed 20/07/2025

 

There are films that entertain, and then there are films that reach in and tug gently at the root of who we are. Our latest Aftersun Film Club screening was firmly the latter.

"No Dogs or Italians Allowed" is a memoir that somehow managed to be both soft and tragic, whimsical and historically intense, all at once.  Alain Ughetto’s animated love letter to his ancestors is a quiet, inventive, and deeply personal journey into the lives that came before him, lives shaped by poverty, migration, war, and sheer grit.

Let’s start with the visuals: broccoli for trees, sugar cubes for buildings, and a narrator who jumps in with his own hands and a pickaxe. Yes, the filmmaker physically enters the story to help his ancestors dig through history. Something the creatives in the room loved… and also mildly panicked. It turns out that reading subtitles and admiring finely chopped vegetable landscapes at the same time is a skill not many of us have mastered. Almost like trying to read a book during a fireworks show.  It was a good problem to have, really. The film asked us to engage with every corner of the frame, to pay attention, to remember.

About the story: A tender love letter to family, migration, survival, and all the strange, hard things that people don’t talk about but somehow pass down anyway. Some called the film sad, others saw it as a quiet celebration of survival. Both are true. It reminded us that remembering isn’t always romantic—it’s heavy, too.

There was an engaging moment in the discussion when someone mentioned the practice of changing names—specifically, how Alain's relatives adjusted their names to fit in, and how many people in Uganda have done the same. We delved into the idea that identity is often influenced (or softened) by societal norms. It became clear that what people think of you is rarely a reflection of who you are; instead, it tends to be shaped by their ideologies, their categorisations, and their need for comfort.

As the room emptied out, a few of us lingered, talking softly about our own families, about grandparents we wish we’d asked more questions, about names we carry and names we’ve let go of.

No Dogs or Italians Allowed gave us space to sit with those thoughts. To listen to the past, and to each other. And maybe, by doing so, reach into the future.

Until next time!