IDENTITY

Identity is an odd film to sit with. It sets up a great atmosphere, shot entirely at night and drenched in so much rain I think the actors must’ve dunked themselves in a tub of water between each take.

The premise is pure high concept — it offers a nice wrinkle in the Agatha Christie “And Then There Were None” narrative and has a great director and even better cast. Anytime Ray Liotta goes an entire film with the “Henry Hill sweaty-coked-out gaze” is a winner for me. And Jesus, how does Pruitt Taylor Vince do that shit with his eyes?!

But yet, something’s missing in there too — something that just isn’t clicking. You can tell sometimes when a movie lacks it’s spark or soul — like the people behind it made it for the wrong reasons, or that there were too many cooks in the kitchen with too many unfocused ideas, or they just didn’t love it like it was their own kid. Who knows, but Identity, with all it’s wonderful puzzle pieces, lacks that soul. At least the poster is really fucking awesome.