"Identity"

This story of the fateful night in that motel is bracketed by another one, evidently some time later, in which a convicted murderer -- apparently the guy who is about to kill several of the motel occupants in story line A -- is getting a last-minute, late-night hearing before a pissed-off judge, on the eve of his execution. Who is this guy? Is he an outside intruder, or is he already in the motel? Is he the sneering convict Rhodes is transporting, or the edgy, mumbly George? Is he shifty-eyed Larry, or even haunted, sympathetic Ed? Now, now, that would be telling.

Most people who try to make thrillers make the mistake of withholding key information, which ends up being glaringly conspicuous by its absence. Mangold and Cooney (the latter is known to horror fans as the writer-director of the "Jack Frost" movies) understand that a deluge of information is far more effective. By the time these temporary neighbors begin to kick the bucket, one by one, under increasingly puzzling circumstances, we're overwhelmed with suspects and plausible theories about the crimes.

Laconic Rhodes (a nice, unshowy performance by Liotta) and soulful Ed try to be the take-charge guys, rounding up the survivors and investigating the killings -- but how trustworthy are they, separately or together? Ginny's losing her grip and keeps trying to escape, even though there's no place to escape to. Weird Larry's skulking around his weird-Larry cave, and won't stay in the same room as Paris; he has issues with "sluts," it seems. Ed tries to stitch up comatose Alice's injuries with a needle and thread, while her silent kid huddles in the corner.

The incident-packed plot and pulse-elevating pace of "Identity" don't leave a tremendous amount of room for actorliness, but Cusack, in his classic mode of thinking much more than he's saying, is clearly the star here. Ed has a Modern Library copy of "Being and Nothingness" in the front seat of his limo; there's a great moment when leggy Paris picks it up, looks at it and then looks at him -- she may not have read the book, but she knows how to read the guy.

Cooney's script, in fact, is full of sharp-edged zingers. After Liotta's square-jawed Rhodes slides up to Paris, just a smidgen too close, and asks her name, he says, "Paris, huh? I never been." She responds, "Well, you ain't goin' tonight." Later, when hysterical Ginny finally notices the omnipresent signs and tourist brochures for "The Tribal Tombs," and suggests that the denizens of the ancient burial ground are causing their problems, Rhodes snaps, "What? Now they're coming back to life like sea monkeys?" Mangold uses that hollow-drum sound made by a rotating commercial dryer to outstandingly spooky ends, and adds a terrific new entry to the catalog of How to Get Killed in a Horror Film -- while wandering around outside, trying to get decent cellphone reception.

As any decent psychology major could tell you, the characters, settings and stories of thrillers and murder mysteries are inherently symbolic. As the closed universe of "Identity," with its Agatha Christie-style cast of seemingly unconnected strangers, becomes odder and more claustrophobic, it starts to feel more like metaphor than reality. This is where most thrillers get trapped by their own devices and start to seem unbearably phony. But as existentialist Ed comes to understand -- alone among this dazzling brain-teaser's characters, he's able to catch a glimpse of the world outside -- the staginess and melodrama and dreamlike terror of this story is precisely where its reality lies.

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