Aubrey Fleming (Lindsay Lohan) is one of the sweetest, brightest girls in town. She’s smart and ambitious, and has the awards to back both those claims. She’s a pianist, an aspiring writer and has friends galore. Is there anything this girl can’t do?
Yes, put out for her boyfriend, Jerrod (Brian Gergahty), who wants to stuff her beaver like there’s no tomorrow, but she’s the type of good girl that needs him to say the magic word to tap that lock box, and as The Beatles once said, “it’s the word love”.
But trouble’s lurking through the neighborhood in the form of a serial killer who abducts and tortures young women, holding them captive for weeks before finally murdering them. Aubrey becomes his next victim when she disappears while out with her friends. As the does go by with no luck in finding her, the FBI Task Force and Aubrey’s parents, Susan (Julia Ormond) and Daniel (Neal McDonough), begin to lose hope.
But hallelujah! A driver finds Aubrey deserted on the side of the road, critically injured. Though those close to her are initially relieved, they are stunned when she claims to have know idea who Aubrey is and identifies herself as a down-on-her-luck stripper by the name of Dakota Moss.
Dun. Dun… DUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Even with a filmography that includes Georgia Rule, that crappy Herbie film and that dumb ABC Family pregnancy movie, I Know Who Killed Me is by far Miss Lohan’s career nadir.
Well, that is if we’re not counting all the family drama, DUI arrests, rehab stints, probation and bench warrants.
Okay, my bad. That was wrong.
Those are career highs compared to this stinky piece of shit.
Every young star undergoes that obligatory transition from cute child star to grown-up, and most of the time, shoot way beyond the moon in doing so. Jodie Foster went from being the adorable little Coppertone Girl of the ’60s to a teenage prostitute in Taxi Driver. Leonardo DiCaprio went from Growing Pains and going full-retard in What’s Eating Gilbert Grape to shooting up heroin in The Basketball Diaries. Vanessa Hudgens went from sweet and bubbly in High School Musical to Damn! in Spring Breakers. Hilary Duff left Lizzie McGuire behind for an oversexed pop star in War, Inc., which nobody saw. Miley Cyrus traded in Hannah Montana for licking objects and twerking on Robin Thicke’s dick.
And then we have Lindsay Lohan, who went from the cute and likable Disney star of The Parent Trap and Freaky Friday to the trashy slut in I Know Who Killed Me.
Sooo… this must be a documentary then?
I Know Who Killed Me desperately tries to be both an erotic thriller and a complex mystery that dives into the nature of dichotomy. It fails at all three aspects, and to be honest it fails at being the unintentional knee-slapper of a comedy it could’ve been simply because of how dreadful of an experience it is. This film doesn’t just ease into its crappiness. It’s DOA from the opening credits.
This is not only the worst movie of 2007, it’s one of the worst movies of the 21st century. Hell, this abortion of cinema is one of the worst movies of all-time.
Ultimately, this film is nothing more than a trashy torture porn flick that somehow has the balls to think it’s this grand artistic accomplishment. If there’s supposed to be any symbolism as to why this film is drenched in blue, I didn’t see it. I’m pretty certain even director Chris Sivertson and writer Jeff Hammond don’t even know what the hell all the blue mean. It’s just blue everywhere. The objects are blue, the lighting is blue, the clothes are blue, even Aubrey’s sex-starved boyfriend’s balls are blue.
That is until Dakota enters the picture, then everything switches over to red. The objects are red, the lighting is red, the clothes are red, her raging hot-as-fire sex drive is red.
See, you can kinda understand Dakota’s world being represented by red. Red signifies passion and she’s a stripper, so sure, whatever. I don’t know what blue is supposed to mean. Is Aubrey depressed? Is she a fan of Blue’s Clues? The St. Louis Blues? B.B. King blues? Blue Velvet? Seriously, what the fuck does it all mean? And how the hell can this mystery be even the slightest-bit thought provoking when Aubrey and Dakota’s blues and reds, respectively, are plastered all over the screen in a screamingly obvious fashion?
Even if you stripped this film of any sign of blue and red, you’d still have an incredibly shitty film on your hands. It’s a film so bad, the Razzie’s not only awarded it Worst Picture, but felt compelled to give Lohan three of the film’s eight dishonors (Adam Sandler’s Jack and Jill has since broken its record by winning ten in 2012): Worst Actress as Aubrey, Worst Actress as Dakota, and Worst Screen Couple. Her atrocious performance earned every one single one of them.
And poor Julia Ormond. I’d hate to think that she suffered through bankruptcy or some other form of financial crisis, but that would actually be the only reasonable excuse as to why a talented actress such as her would pop up in this mess.
I haven’t even gotten to the film’s narrative yet, ’cause I spent half of this review ranting about two fucking primary colors, but man is it mind-fuck of a story and not in the good way. The stupidest cops you’ll ever meet and the fact that any basic forensics test could’ve solved this bull shit mystery in a snap are the appetizer, but the icing on the cake is the big reveal in Hammond’s screenplay – connecting the stigmata to twins Aubrey and Dakota. Yes, they’re psychically connected twins born to a crack addict. When one experiences pain, the other shares it too, e.g., Aubrey having her finger cut off leading to Dakota bleeding to death before hitting the stripping stage.
Or better yet, one retarded film leading to me losing 100 IQ points.
This film actually had the balls big enough to tie-in dirty little Miss Lohan to a form of physical infliction most commonly connected with Jesus. All those involved in this film are going to hell, I’m going to hell now for just mentioning this and all of you are now going to hell for reading it.
And here’s the real kick in the nuts: Lohan doesn’t even bare it all for us. Shame too ’cause this film came right in the midst of her prime slut years – you know, before drugs and alcohol warped her into a perfect casting choice for the Parable of the Ten Lepers. These years are almost as precious and not-to-be-wasted as one’s childbearing years, yet that’s exactly what this film does. So not only is Dakota a slut, she’s a prudish slut, which makes her the worst of kind of slut possible.
I mean, c’mon, what else did this film have to offer?
This virtuous whore move was kinda the same gyp move the studios pulled with The Boy Next Door where halfway through you’re like, fuck it, I’ll throw journalistic integrity out the door and bump this film up a grade if J-Lo strips down to nothing, and you’re given nothing in return. Here, Lohan, playing a stripper who might as well be doing her routine in a hazmat suit, has let down millions of hormonal teenage boys who were filled with joy over the promise of seeing that one redhead from Mean Girls show the goods, and upon anxiously waiting with their tissues and bottle of lotion over the entire duration of the film’s sluggishly-paced 106 minutes, they sadly discover that it will never come to pass.
As Willy Wonka would say, “YOU GET NOTHING!!!! YOU LOSE! GOOD DAY, SIR!!!!”
“I SAID GOOD DAY, SIR!!!!!!!!!!!!”
I Know Who Killed Me could’ve fallen into the so bad it’s good category, but it falls far short of achieving such an infamous fate and is instead a case of so bad it’s soul-crushing. It’s ludicrously plotted, the performances are cringe-inducing and the overall vibe is so nasty you’ll wanna swan dive into a pool of lye just to scrub all the filth off you. Even as one of the biggest tabloid magnets of the past 10 years, with all that offscreen controversy, nothing Lohan’s done will ever come close to being as disturbing as watching her clumsily writhe her way around a stripper pole.
Review source: http://silverscreenfanatic.com/2016/01/18/what-the-hell-were-they-thinking-107/