I Know Who Killed Me — movie review
I Know Who Killed Me starring Lindsay Lohan was a smart, sensational comedy — wait, it wasn’t a comedy? Let me start again. I Know Who Killed Me should have been called “I Know Who Filmed Me Stripping” because it seemed like the director exploited his voluptuous starlet in attempts to attract more box office glory (ironic since everyone’s already seen her coochie on the internet). Also, as Chris pointed out as we were leaving the theatre, the title should’ve been “I Know Who Killed Me, but I’m not dead and it’s my twin they are actually killing, and–” well, you get the picture. Loopholes, loopholes, loopholes amidst a sea of unlimited lipgloss (even while convalescing she was in full whore make-up), every other word f-bombs, and Lonelygirl15’s theatrical debut. Oy. That being said, I have to point out the strengths in I Know Who Killed Me. First of all, the brutal dry-ice torture and carving tools are inventive, although glass saws are crazy impractical. It might have been cool to have one of those fancy curvy superfluous ridges break off inside someone’s skin though. I’m not sure how a stationary axe turned into a pneumatic-sounding bonesaw, but there’s movie magic for ya. The gory effects and geared freak-outs were pretty crafty, like a well-made Halloween fright maze type crafty. The taffy-skinned stripper boss-lady was almost Lynch-ian. Art Bell made a guest appearance in a scientific webcast that’s hilarious with his lit cigarette as accessory. Lohan was a sport by appearing appallingly grungy. The surreal football game where the home team gets creamed while their fans cheer. The amazing websearch results for “uncontrollable bleeding”. The twin stigmata idea was fresh; in another movie it might have actually worked and I’m a little disappointed that it didn’t here, because I really wanted this to be one of those surprisingly well-made films that you never saw coming. LiLo, I’m rootin’ for ya.
Lindsay Lohan rehashes her Parent Trap vibe for I Know Who Killed Me, this time playing not quite so distinguishable polar opposites Aubrey Fleming and Dakota Moss. One is supposed to be a silver-spoon fed scholar prude, the other a street-savvy exotic dancer, but with Lohan and a lazy costume designer at the wheel, both appear ripe and randy. The blaring difference is that they bathed good chick Aubrey in blue and Dakota in sinister red, all-out Heathers stylee. In fact, I’m not even sure where Dakota found red clothes in Aubrey’s closet since every minute detail was indeed smurfified, down to the roses her boyfriend brings her in the nod where she pricks her finger and gazes at the blood as if its color triggered some psuedo memories.
While the film does a good job at the twin vs. adopted persona guessing game, it falters in so many other aspects. The messy depressing acting, the forever slo-mo pole sliding shots, the glaring soundtrack. The jackpot way Dakota pieces everything together at the end is a no-brainer since there was only one possible menace. It was almost as if I Know Who Killed Me was struggling against formulaic familiarity so much (unless that was just really thoughtless soulless editing) that it forgot to build up a suspenseful villain. The fact that there was an actual intriguing plot thread hidden deep in the back of someone’s mind made it unbearable to watch it just melt away with all that lip gloss.
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