A memoir of the experiences of a seven-year-old girl is tricky to trust, especially in a time of nation-shattering political change. A seven year old has memories—subjective, partial, distorted by the passage of time—not records. The dispersal of white farmers at the time when Zimbabwe gained independence from the U.K. in 1980 is a totally different event depending on whether you are the possessor or inheritor of the reassigned land. Assessing the integrity of a cinematic record based on a one-sided memoir is challenging, to say the least.
“Don’t Let’s Go to the Dogs Tonight” (Sony), now showing at the Montrose Playhouse, is intelligent enough to grasp that it is wading into extremely murky territory. The screen is cast in darkness as the opening moments establish the girl’s jarring indoctrination. Eventually a single candle is lit—suggesting (rather over-obviously) that the memoir will illuminate the historical context for the audience. “I try not to think that a terrorist is waiting in the dark for me—with a gun, or a knife, or a spear,” she says. “Every African can be a terrorist. You are not supposed to talk to a[n] African about anything.” The word “African” is important because at several points Bobo seems confused—“Mum, am I African?” And what is a seven year old supposed to make of her grandmother’s explanation of how to choose between election candidates: “Even though he’s an African he’s not a real African.” Setting off for school, rifle on her back, she leaves her father fearfully checking, rearming and oiling weapons surrounded by empty bottles of liquor.
The clever use of British radio as a stand-in for the colonial overlord helps the drama considerably. At one point the famous Radio-Four shipping forecast emphasises oneness and communion with the mother ship (presumably the state of the Scottish coastal waters aren’t of much relevance if one lives in Zimbabwe). Later, Big Ben chiming—to start the radio news—is used to similar effect. And after the election is won by President Mugabe the bias of the B.B.C. is highlighted by the running order: “First, [lets hear] what Lord Soames had to say to all Rhodesians.” Preaching to the “home” choir.
Bobo telling the story—if dubious from a reliability point of view—leads to one of the most creative elements of the film, the ingenious cinematography. The camera moves quite quickly, lining up many of the shots as they would appear to a seven year old. Horses shot from the level of the riders’ knees, extras seen from their midriff rather than their face, pets observed eating from floor level, a suitcase in the centre of a shot (as it’s at Bobo’s height)—all really work. And a further decision to make the shots of Bobo take up the same amount of space as the shots of the adults ordains Bobo with equivalence—she is one of them. Much care has been taken to infer how Bobo created her memoir: she overhears, eavesdrops, badgers, stares through windows and openings in doors, spies. And the scenes between Bobo and the Black characters reveal her bossiness, lack of any insight, and privilege; by the end it is hardly a shock for the audience that Bobo will react with surprise when their Black servant won’t resettle with them. Bobo’s naivety is filmed exceptionally well. Eventually she is told, “This is not the time for you to be bossing. When you leave this place Sarah will not be going with you.”
The second act predominantly focuses on mother Nicola’s advanced alcoholism. While the resentful, self-pitying drunk—dishevelled, neglectful, antisocial, flying off the handle at the slightest thing—is portrayed well, it overwhelms the narrative. None of the Black characters introduced have any interior lives (as they aren’t the subject of the memoir). And so nice lines like “Africans have eyes to see what the whites cannot see,” are left unexplored—a pity, as Nicola is given a surplus of dialog: “This is everything we fought for. Everything;” “I fought for this land. I buried children on this land. It’s my land;” “Who said you could come on this farm. This is my farm.” At one point, she chides her daughter (who has witnessed a disturbing scene involving her older sister and loathsome uncle): “What won’t you say to get attention?”But the attention-seeker is Nicola; Bobo is bored because her mother is absent.
We are very lucky in Montrose to have the LandxSea Festival. One of last year’s highlights was “The Battle for Laikipia.” This superb documentary explores present-day militarised legal battles between white ranchers and the Samburu in Kenya over arable land made scarce by climate change. The genius of this film is the filmmakers’ talent for keeping out of the story. They allow the audience to make their own mind up about the rights and wrongs of the battle. It is the polar opposite of a blunt-instrument memoir.
A couple of scenes before the family’s closing migration in “Don’t Let’s Go to the Dogs Tonight”—they have the right to freely enter Zambia—Dad (from whom we don’t hear much) asserts himself. “Maybe you should take what Mum says with a pinch of salt.” That’s a pretty even-handed way to describe the audience’s reaction to the narrative. And, to his wife, “Think about someone else for once in your bloody life.” He signs the papers to sell the farm to the government—with a real flourish of resentment—while she is sleeping it off. “There you have it,” he says.
Adam Poole
6th October 2025
