The Bates Motel has nothing on the isolated motel in "Identity." Murder victims turn up every few minutes, and instead of a fatal shower, this motel has a deadly washer-dryer. Yes, those spin cycles can kill.

There is a great spoof comedy here, but, unfortunately, writer Michael Cooney and director James Mangold play one of the most ludicrous screenplays in recent memory in earnest. Sony's marketing campaign will have to be as misleading as the story to lure a crowd.

The setup is pure Agatha Christie: Trap 11 characters in a remote location, cut them off from civilization with a fierce rainstorm and watch the bodies drop as we try to guess the killer. That all telephones, including cell phones, fail to work is a stretch, but never mind.

A group of strangers takes refuge from a Nevada desert storm in an aging motel run by a jittery manager (John Hawkes). These include a limo driver (John Cusack), a fading TV actress (Rebecca DeMornay).

a psycho prisoner (Jake Busey) transported by a nervous cop (Ray Liotta) -- from LAPD's notorious Rampart Division, no less -- a prostitute (Amanda Peet), a pair of bickering newlyweds (Clea DuVall and William Lee Scott) and a family with a critically injured member (John C. McGinley, Leila Kenzle, Bret Loehr).

The first thing we notice is how thoroughly annoying every character is, save perhaps for Cusack's chauffeur. The cop acts stranger than his crazy prisoner. The hooker gets distracted by everything. The newlyweds of eight hours are ready for a divorce. And the actress' ego clearly has outdistanced her fading star power. One soon appreciates the killer's activities.

The next thing we notice is the absurdity of most of the deaths. There is no inherent logic to the random killings, and the likelihood that one of this group is the real killer is virtually nil. A touch of the supernatural, perhaps? Did we mention the motel sits on a sacred Indian burial ground?

At the point where the dead outnumber the living, Cooney and Mangold hit us with a jarring twist. Or at least they hope it's a jarring twist. The secret will not get disclosed here, but in reality what the filmmakers do is violate the Basic Agreement between all storytellers and their audiences.

Whatever world a filmmaker chooses to present, be it a world of science fiction, fantasy, nitty-gritty drama or improbable horror, he must stay true to that world. A cartoon cannot abruptly turn into live-action. The rules of the game can't change midway through. Nevertheless, this movie struggles with its own identity.

For it's not really a true murder mystery, and everything we have witnessed has an alternative explanation. So once we realize this, why should anyone care who the "killer" is? Or to be succinct, the writer -- not the butler -- did it.

Mangold and his capable cinematographer Phedon Papamichael favor close shots of actors, often at extreme angles, all the better to spring little visual surprises on the audience as the room is never in full view.

Alan Silvestri's music, driven by guitar strings and a tabla, pounds away, as if trying to rival the lightning and thunder.

The actors do appear to enjoy playing these fanatical characters without the usual worries of nuance and subtlety. There is a jokey quality in much of this emoting. But Mangold, clearly uncomfortable with tongue-in-cheek humor, opts for the superserious. Which "Identity" never earns.