In One Hundred Mornings, the apocalypse is not imagined as burned-out landscapes or cities being blown to bits, but simply as two young couples holed up in a rural Irish cabin with no electricity and a dwindling stock of food supplies. Forgoing spectacle in favor of practical considerations, Conor Horgan’s film smartly takes the short view of end-of-the-world survivalism. Even though the power outage is general and a trip to the nearest town yields the film’s only conventionally end-of-days imagery (rubbish-strewn streets, burning oil drums), our viewpoints are tied to those of the characters, who are denied a sense of the tragedy’s scope. Set in an idyllic countryside and filmed in crisp browns, the locale could be that of a weekend getaway, except for the intrusions of marauders, the visits of vaguely menacing police, and the mounting internal tensions, which give way to a steadily escalating sense of despair. Part morality play, part comment on our excessive energy consumption, One Hundred Mornings is often most affecting when it considers the most mundane points: In a world where resources are almost nonexistent and money is meaningless, what stakes can you play for in a poker game?