You know exactly where this is going within ten minutes, and that’s sort of the problem. Fahrije’s husband never came back from the war, the village has decided that grief should come with a curfew, and she’s got bees, kids and not much else to work with. So she starts selling red pepper sauce. The men don’t approve, and approval, it turns out, isn’t really on offer anywhere in this village.
It’s the quiet-defiance-against-a-hostile-community arc, and the engine still runs, it just never quite catches fire. Yllka Gashi does her best on a face that seems to have given up on smiling somewhere around scene two, but there’s only so much a blank expression can carry alone. Every beat lands exactly where you’d expect — door slammed, gossip whispered, one neighbour coming round embarrassingly late to being decent — and that’s the trouble, really. You can feel the film hitting its marks rather than living them.
Given the subject matter, it should have landed harder than it did. It might work for you. For me, it was a bit of a shrug.