Later this month, huge numbers of not-particularly-religious people will go and see Darren Aronofsky's Noah, which is based on a well-known biblical story from the book of Genesis. How can we explain the broad contemporary appeal of a story of 2,000 words composed primarily of lists?

When you strip away the details - woodworking logistics, zoological challenges, sheer administrative terror - at the heart of Noah's story are a set of perennially resonant human issues. An otherwise ordinary 600-year-old man experiences apocalyptic premonitions of a flood, driving him to build a massive boat (the Ark) in order to save his family and a comprehensive sample of the planet's wildlife. A made-to-measure blockbuster to be sure, but the broad appeal of Noah's story runs deeper than its epic storyline.

Most of us go through ordeals that cause us to question our assumptions, to reevaluate our choices, perhaps even to strike out on dramatic new pathways - for example, during mid-life crises, following the death of a friend, or upon reaching the limits of one's tolerance for the inequality and stupidity of modern life. "Spiritual" or "transcendental" experiences are nowadays more likely to be interpreted as psychological problems than as messages from either the subconscious or the cosmos, yet even staunch rationalists will find themselves wondering if the world is not, from time to time, telling them to do something. And of course, though in less stark terms than for Noah, the spectre of environmental catastrophe lurks ever more ominously for us moderns, forcing us to contemplate our responsibility to the planet and its inhabitants. As philosopher Reiner Schürmann puts it: "The ease with which a whole age nonetheless continues to graze, in spite of exterminations still alive in our memories and planetary asphyxiations already in our throats, gives grounds for perplexity" (Schürmann 2003 p. 3). The appetite for an equivalent project to the Ark is evinced in fanciful writings and TED talks about Mars colonies, geo-engineering, solar-flare deflection, and so forth.

Noah's story has rich potential as an allegory for so many of today's issues. However, by casting Russell Crowe as Noah and concocting some contrived narrative about a face-off with a rival tribe led by Bet365's Ray Winstone (because what Noah's character-arc lacks is adversity?), Aronofsky looks to have made a Waterworld prequel with elements of Braveheart and Lord of the Rings. (If it seems churlish of me to prejudge a movie, see how you feel after watching the trailer.) Reports from early screenings in Mexico suggest that the environmental message dominates, and Aronofsky successfully teases out some "darker" philosophical questions (a thread that runs through his other movies) regarding Noah's choices, but the movie ultimately devolves into well-trodden fantasy/thriller format.

For a more subtly unsettling and socially-relevant approach to similar subject matter, I recommend the under-appreciated film Take Shelter (2011). Take Shelter stars Michael Shannon as Curtis LaForche, an introspective Ohio construction worker with a wife and a deaf daughter. When LaForche starts to experience terrifying apocalyptic visions (strange storms, clouds of birds flying in symbolic formation), he is unsure whether they are genuine premonitions or schizophrenic delusions. Lacking Noah's conviction and deity-assured righteousness, LaForche struggles to distinguish the real from the illusory as he desperately attempts to shelter his family from some impending, unnamed terror.

Where Take Shelter excels is in its use of LaForche's unravelling state of mind to comment on the fragility of contemporary civilization: dread and uncertainty haunt the dark corners of our tenuously mundane existence. The movie opens in the post-2008 economic crisis, shortly after the Deepwater Horizon oil spill, and during fractious debates about healthcare, housing, and systemic corruption. LaForche's first visions - of catastrophic storms that rain a yellow oily substance - arrive as he toils to afford medical care for his daughter on the inferior insurance package offered by his employer, neatly tying together zeitgeist anxieties about health, environment and security.

When LaForche's visions take a violent turn, his initial helplessness gives way to a desperate urge to act. Unable to flee his job and responsibilities, LaForche begins to construct a survival shelter funded by bank loans he cannot afford (in a nod to the sub-prime mortgage crisis of 2007-8), and built using equipment illicitly borrowed from his workplace. His friends and family are at first bemused, then concerned, and finally deeply disturbed by LaForche's deteriorating attempts to conceal his obsession with the shelter.

LaForche's alienation is finally consummated when, in an exquisitely well-acted scene, he violently flips out in a community dining hall. The meltdown is the most memorable scene of the movie (with the possible exception of the goose bump-inducing, bittersweet ending) but its power stems from the release of an intense, brooding tension built up in stifling layers by Michael Shannon's perfect performance. Shannon, who resembles a cross between Ray Liotta and Richard Kiel, has the offbeat looks of a classic character actor, but the presence and intensity of a star (in this regard, he is cut from the same cloth as the late Philip Seymour Hoffman). As LaForche's torment deepens, Shannon's face buckles like beaten sheet metal; his wounded humility is palpable in scenes where he seeks help from bank managers and counsellors; his desolate confusion transmitted through unsteady hands wringing the rubber outline of a gas-mask.

Take Shelter is not a showy movie. Judicious CGI effects elide nicely with the unfussy cinematography. The soundtrack scarcely rises above a brooding murmur. Ohio rural skylines and plain urban interiors provide a simple backdrop for the affecting subject matter. Writer/director Jeff Nichols' chosen device is the unadorned human psyche - a technique whose success he has purportedly replicated in the Matthew McConaughey-starring Mud. Only Cronenburg's A History of Violence blends plodding minutiae, human angst, and jolting spectacle with the grace on display in Nichols' film.

The success of Take Shelter - and the promise of Noah - hinge on an essential injection of doubt into the Noah's Ark narrative. As momentous as the biblical version of Noah's task was, it was essentially defined by failure or success. As the example of war demonstrates, humans are remarkably, dumbly powerful when set on a determined course of action. LaForche's problems, like so many of our own, lie in the task of determination - what to do? who to trust? how to live? The answers to these question are not given: we each must locate the elusive timbers of comprehension and conviction that rarely break the troubled, rising waters.