DIRECTOR: Nikola Vukcevic
STARRING: Edon Rizvanolli, Elez Adzovic, Alban Ukaj, Aleksandar Radulovic, Xhejlane Terbunja
RUNNING TIME: 1 hr 37 minutes
LANGUAGE: Serbo-Croatian, Albanian
PLOT: A hunted child finds refuge in the home of his enemy. Now the host must make an agonizing choice: protect the child and preserve his own humanity, or betray him and save his family from the wrath of armed kinsmen.
GENRE: Drama
FILMING LOCATION: Bar, Montenegro
To check out all previous submissions for Montenegro, click HERE.
STARRING: Edon Rizvanolli, Elez Adzovic, Alban Ukaj, Aleksandar Radulovic, Xhejlane Terbunja
RUNNING TIME: 1 hr 37 minutes
LANGUAGE: Serbo-Croatian, Albanian
PLOT: A hunted child finds refuge in the home of his enemy. Now the host must make an agonizing choice: protect the child and preserve his own humanity, or betray him and save his family from the wrath of armed kinsmen.
GENRE: Drama
FILMING LOCATION: Bar, Montenegro
To check out all previous submissions for Montenegro, click HERE.
FILM REVIEW:
(This review contains spoilers.)
“A brave man is not someone who is not afraid, but the one who knows how to overcome his fear."
Nikola Vukcevic’s The Tower of Strength (Obraz) is a deeply human wartime drama set in the 1940's in Montenegro by the border with Albania, a place divided not only by war but by faith and fear. The film opens with chaos and pursuit, a young Christian boy hunted by a gang of army men, before finding refuge in the home of a prominent Muslim family. What follows is not a story of grand battles, but of moral ones. Vukcevic uses this intimate setting to explore how identity, belief, and conscience collide when survival depends on silence. His camera lingers on faces rather than landscapes, on trembling hands instead of weapons, turning every decision into a battlefield of its own.
The tension in The Tower of Strength is masterfully built not through violence but through the unbearable quiet of waiting, waiting for footsteps outside the door, for the moment when faith will either unite or destroy. The father, caught between loyalty to his community and the voice of his own conscience, becomes the film’s moral center. The performances are extraordinary in their restraint; small gestures reveal volumes about fear, guilt, and dignity. Vukcevic’s use of light and shadow deepens the atmosphere, transforming the family home into both sanctuary and prison.
Beyond its gripping human drama, the film serves as a meditation on the moral collapse that war brings. Vukcevic refuses to assign simple heroes or villains, every character is marked by history, by the weight of tradition, by the fragility of what they believe to be right. The Christian boy, silent and terrified, becomes a symbol of innocence itself, a mirror that forces the father to confront not only the gang outside, but the violence embedded within his own society. The film’s title, The Tower of Strength, resonates as both metaphor and warning: strength can protect, but it can also isolate.
Obraz is about the courage to choose humanity over hatred. It asks whether faith can survive when compassion is punished, and whether moral conviction can outlast fear. Vukcevic shows that true strength is not found in the sword or the creed, but in the moment a man decides to protect the life of another, even when that life belongs to the enemy. In one instant, humanity can either crumble or transcend itself.
(This review contains spoilers.)
“A brave man is not someone who is not afraid, but the one who knows how to overcome his fear."
Nikola Vukcevic’s The Tower of Strength (Obraz) is a deeply human wartime drama set in the 1940's in Montenegro by the border with Albania, a place divided not only by war but by faith and fear. The film opens with chaos and pursuit, a young Christian boy hunted by a gang of army men, before finding refuge in the home of a prominent Muslim family. What follows is not a story of grand battles, but of moral ones. Vukcevic uses this intimate setting to explore how identity, belief, and conscience collide when survival depends on silence. His camera lingers on faces rather than landscapes, on trembling hands instead of weapons, turning every decision into a battlefield of its own.
The tension in The Tower of Strength is masterfully built not through violence but through the unbearable quiet of waiting, waiting for footsteps outside the door, for the moment when faith will either unite or destroy. The father, caught between loyalty to his community and the voice of his own conscience, becomes the film’s moral center. The performances are extraordinary in their restraint; small gestures reveal volumes about fear, guilt, and dignity. Vukcevic’s use of light and shadow deepens the atmosphere, transforming the family home into both sanctuary and prison.
Beyond its gripping human drama, the film serves as a meditation on the moral collapse that war brings. Vukcevic refuses to assign simple heroes or villains, every character is marked by history, by the weight of tradition, by the fragility of what they believe to be right. The Christian boy, silent and terrified, becomes a symbol of innocence itself, a mirror that forces the father to confront not only the gang outside, but the violence embedded within his own society. The film’s title, The Tower of Strength, resonates as both metaphor and warning: strength can protect, but it can also isolate.
Obraz is about the courage to choose humanity over hatred. It asks whether faith can survive when compassion is punished, and whether moral conviction can outlast fear. Vukcevic shows that true strength is not found in the sword or the creed, but in the moment a man decides to protect the life of another, even when that life belongs to the enemy. In one instant, humanity can either crumble or transcend itself.
