Tangerines is one of those rare war films that refuses to shout. Instead, it whispers – quietly, honestly – until its message sinks deep. On the surface, it is a story set during the Abkhazian war, but in truth it is a film about life, compassion, and the fragile thread that connects human beings even when they are supposed to be enemies.
The film follows Ivo, an elderly Estonian living in a conflict zone, who stays behind to harvest his tangerines while most villagers have fled. In his modest wooden house, two wounded soldiers from opposite sides – one Georgian, one Chechen – end up under his roof. These two men who were ready to kill each other hours earlier are forced into an uneasy coexistence, and it is precisely through this forced proximity that the film’s emotional power emerges.
The performances are excellent, especially Lembit Ulfsak as Ivo. With almost no dramatic outbursts and very few words, he carries the film’s entire moral gravity. He is calm, steady, and quietly authoritative; a man whose humanity stands firm against the madness around him. The two soldiers, initially consumed by hatred, slowly reveal vulnerability, fear, humor, and memories. Their transformation feels real because it happens through simple, human interactions.
The dialogue is deliberately simple. No philosophical monologues, no heavy exposition; just short, grounded exchanges. This simplicity is intentional: war has stripped everything down to the essentials, and the film wants us to see meaning in the smallest words. A few lines over a meal, a question about family, a hesitant apology; each moment adds a piece to the emotional puzzle. The text is minimal, but the meaning is rich.
Psychologically, the film is a study of dehumanization and rehumanization. War makes it easy to see the enemy as a faceless concept. But when two men share a table, share silence, or share fear, the labels dissolve. The Georgian soldier and the Chechen soldier begin the story defined by slogans and loyalties, but as the film progresses, they are defined by something far more universal: their pain, their memories, their longing to live.
Ivo, quietly and steadily, becomes the moral center of the story; a man who refuses to choose sides because he has chosen humanity. The rule he sets in his home is simple: “No killing here.” And from this simple rule, a fragile peace grows. It’s a reminder that sometimes changing the world doesn’t require a revolution; sometimes it begins with one person who refuses hatred.
Visually, Tangerines is beautiful without being showy. The calm, green landscapes contrast sharply with the brutality of war, creating a sense of sadness; nature remains peaceful while humans destroy each other. The cinematography uses stillness, long pauses, and soft light to emphasize the emotional tone. The entire film has the feel of a quiet memory or a moral fable.
Ultimately, Tangerines is not a film about battles or politics. It is a film about the ordinary people caught in the middle, trying to protect what little remains of their dignity and kindness. It shows that humanity can survive even where cruelty seems inevitable.
If we reduce it to one simple truth, the film says this:
War divides people, but life – and sometimes a basket of tangerines – brings them back together.
A gentle film, beautifully performed, meaningful in its simplicity, and unforgettable in its humanity.
