Blindness is pure ideological gimmickry: An unspecified city in an unspecified nation is stricken by an epidemic of blindness known as "the white sickness" ("It feels like I'm swimming in milk," says the first victim). The frantic government rounds up the afflicted (and their secretly still-sighted savior, played by Julianne Moore) and locks them in an abandoned hospital under armed guard. Almost immediately—I mean, seriously, within weeks—the social order crumbles, the infected start crapping everywhere and fighting over food and raping indiscriminately, and the film becomes physically impossible to watch.

It has the potential to be an interesting exercise, and Blindness—based on the novel by José Saramago—is stunningly effective in the tension department. Every object in the movie is sharp, or hot, or loud, or fast. Characters grasp and stumble and impale themselves on scissors and high heels. But when the vacuum-sealed high concept escapes the boundaries of the hospital—when Saramago and director Fernando Meirelles reveal themselves as smug, black-clad cynics who actually believe that humans tend toward chaos, maaan—any sensible person has to call bullshit. Surely, in the early weeks of the epidemic, Sandra Oh (as a Shadowy World Leader) could recruit some preexisting blinds to teach the remaining nonblinds how to effectively function while blind? So then when everyone actually ends up blind, they don't just crawl around on the street eating garbage and crying? I MEAN, SURELY. It's just not plausible. At least 1997's Cube had the decency to be set in a contextless magical maze.

The entire package—book, movie, and attending implications—seems like nothing more than a massive contrivance leading up to Saramago's über-earnest punch line (trumpeted in the press materials): "I don't think we did go blind. I think we always were blind. Blind but seeing. People who can see, but do not see."

Wow, man. That's deep. That's deep.

Oh wait. What I actually meant was shut the fuck up.