Is bottom of the barrel for Jena Malone.
Sub-Lynchian nightmare that's lifeless, dull, trite, melodramatic, plagued by cheap sound design and propped up with unconvincing, cardboard characters.
Malone twirls, gyrates and does lots of sexy lip biting over a series of dissolves in hallways lit by red bulbs; the type of set-up I remember being the epitome of indie edginess in 1994.
She also tells a story of abusing a mentally disabled 'vegetable' when she was a kid, a monologue so pointedly provocational, that you hate the screenwriter and her character as early as five minutes into the film.
Half a star for the location scouts finding the hotel where much of this takes place. The rancher decor is creepier than any of the Lost Highway-lite, body swapping, anxiety-fuelled phantasmagoria that swirls around it.