*** (out of ****)
Starring John Cusack, Ray Liotta, Amanda Peet, John Hawkes, Alfred Molina, Pruitt Taylor Vince, Clea DuVall, John C. McGinley, William Lee Scott, Rebecca De Mornay, Marshall Bell, Leila Kenzle, Bret Loehr, and Jake Busey
Directed by James Mangold & written by Michael Cooney
2003 R
There are two ways a movie mystery can end: it can play fair or it can have a “ghost in the machine.” A mystery that plays fair gives us all the clues along the way so that, if we’re quick enough, we can solve it by the end. No deep dark secrets from the past pop up in the last two seconds. A ghost in the machine, or “deus ex machina,” dates back to medieval morality plays, unless I’m mistaken, in which an angel would descend onto the stage, lowered by ropes and pulleys, and set everything aright. Mysteries that end like this—all the clues turn out to be fake, or the culprit could have been anybody up until someone in particular jumps out of the dark with a knife—tend not to be as satisfying. The funny thing about “Identity” is that it kind of ends both ways. You could say that there is definitely a “deus ex machina,” but there are genuine clues pointing to it along the way.
The set-up is pure Agatha Christie (see “Murder on the Orient Express”). A small group of strangers is isolated in the middle of nowhere and a murder is committed. The killer is in their midst and they must find him or her before another victim is claimed. Secrets from the past and connections between the suspects are often the key. In “Identity,” the scene of the crime is a run-down motel in the Nevada desert, and the isolation is provided by a terrific movie storm, the kind that floods every road for miles, knocks out power and telephone lines, distorts cell phones, and illuminates crucial scenes with lightning. There we meet the sleazy manager (John Hawkes), a bickering couple of newlyweds (Clea DuVall and William Lee Scott), an ex-cop-turned-limo driver and the has-been movie star he’s transporting (John Cusack and Rebecca DeMornay), a prostitute with a bag of stolen loot (Amanda Peet), and a nuclear family that has just been in an accident (John C. McGinley, Leila Kenzle, and Bret Loehr). To make matters worse, an irritable cop (the always enjoyable and sweaty Ray Liotta) shows up transporting a yellow-clad and chained convict (Jake Busey, the creepy looking son of even creepier actor Gary Busey). Everyone is trapped by the storm, and soon they are trapped with a dead body and a killer, as well as the creepy realization that they all have the same birthday. Duh-dun-dah!
A concurrent story runs alongside the motel killings, that of a convicted killer and his psychiatrist (Pruitt Taylor Vince and Alfred Molina) attempting, the night before his execution, to sweet-talk a judge. Vague similiarities between the two storylines begin to appear and we wonder what the connection could be. Are the motel murders happening at the same time? Are they a flashback? Is Ray Liotta really supposed to be transporting Vince, and not Jake Busey, and has something gone wrong?
Meanwhile, Liotta and Cusack are scouring the rain-swept motel, and trying to get the hooker or the manager, who seem to be the calmest of the potential victims, to look after the other survivors. As the body count rises and the murders become more daring and inexplicable, accusations that the supernatural is involved begin to arise, and we wonder if there’s any truth to them.
“Identity” is the work of James Mangold, who directed “Girl, Interrupted” and “Cop Land,” and he has found a great look for it, starting with a sleazy dive that bears an intentional resemblence to the Bates Motel. He and his cinematographer Phedon Papamichael give us shadowy internal spaces, rainstreaked windows, a parking lot that’s all mud and puddles. The actors, who must develop their characters sharply and quickly, do so effortlessly and invisibly, and maybe with a little typecasting. DuVall, who was so effective as the dreamy angel-watcher in “13 Conversations About One Thing,” slides naturally into the role of the distraught and emotional newlywed; Liotta, who couldn’t look honest to save his life, is properly secretive as a cop with something to hide; Amanda Peet’s natural beauty and superior bitchiness combine easily to make a prostitute; and of course John Cusack is as always low-key and intelligent, and is here honorable and honest. As the has-been actress, Rebecca DeMornay, well, DeMornay is very good is this movie.
The screenplay by Michael Cooney has some moments of brilliance when it comes to solving the crime. These moments are even more brilliant when we consider that his past credits include—no offense, Mike—the direct-to-video “Jack Frost,” not the one with Michael Keaton but the one where the dead serial killer turns into a snow man and runs people over. Once the deus ex machina is explained—and a little clumsily at that—some of the suspense goes away, and the movie’s last scene is probably unnecesary. But it is a clever explanation, even if it’s spelled out a little more than it needs to be, instead of leaving us to wonder more, and even if some of the psychology involved would probably make real headshrinks blanche. But the important thing is that “Identity” plays fair, and it certainly swept me along.
Those who have seen the movie may click here to read my thoughts on the gimmick.
Finished July 13th, 2003
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