Simultaneously a contrived piece of hokum and an absorbing, old-fashioned mystery, James Mangold's Identity continually verges on self-parody, yet it remains compelling until a finale that sends it reeling out of control. As relentlessly convoluted as Mangold's debut film Heavy was simple and pure, Identity stars John Cusack as one of a series of strangers who converge one dark and stormy night on a dilapidated hotel so sinister that even Norman Bates would steer clear. The motel's reluctant visitors include faded diva Rebecca De Mornay, intense cop Ray Liotta, crazy-eyed Jake Busey, hysterical newlywed Clea DuVall, family man John C. McGinley, and hooker-with-a-heart-of-gold Amanda Peet. In a gleefully self-aware homage to Agatha Christie's Ten Little Indians, bodies begin piling up, and Busey emerges as the default suspect. But once he turns up dead, all bets are off. In the wrong hands, Identity could easily be an unintentionally hilarious camp howler. Last year's 8 Women combined many of the same elements into a frothy soufflé, but even it didn't stage its whodunit shenanigans on an Indian burial ground. Yet Identity transcends its premise's silliness, thanks to Mangold's mastery of tone and a cast that gives shape and substance to the screenplay's never-ending stream of dark secrets, reversals, and revelations. Identity isn't quite the Hitchcockian mindfuck its makers intended, but its director deserves credit for crafting an engaging thriller out of some of the cheesiest elements imaginable.