"Why donít you tell us so we can skip this turkey?"
Movie trailers can often be faulted for revealing too much about the films they advertise. With ĎI Know Who Killed Me,í this problem is especially glaring because it tells potential audiences that its movie exists.I would hate to meet the individuals who comprise the target market for this film. To enjoy this film, a viewer must: * crave visions of limbs and digits either being severed or decaying at incredible speed * long for the sight of a somnambulistic Lindsay Lohan cavorting around a pole in lingerie * adore reciting dirty jokes that are merely, well, dirty * admire the art that Salvador Dali might have painted after a lobotomy * wait, but not for long, for his first ever sighting of an exposed bosom.
Itís easy to speculate that the test screenings were held in asylums across the country.
Director Chris Sivertson seems to know that screenwriter Jeff Hammondís screenplay canít stand on its own. There isnít much to it. A high schooler named Aubrey Fleming (Lohan) who longs to write sappy fiction is abducted by a serial killer. His trademark is that he chops off more limbs than a Civil War surgeon.
After a mysterious escape, Aubreyís parents (Julia Ormond and Neal McDonough) rush to the hospital only to discover that the injured young woman in the bed claims to be not their daughter, but a stripper named Dakota Moss.
There isnít any suspense after that, so Siverston resorts to a series of bizarre visual gimmicks that elicit more giggles than frights. Frequently, he fills the screen with flushes of red and blue as if they were the only colors available to the modern filmmaker. He often cuts to shots of large, menacing owls. He also mysteriously cuts to a shot of an opossum. Thatís forgivable because the little beast is probably the only living thing that wonít have its reputation tarnished by this movie.
The filmmakers donít trust viewers to think for themselves. In case you didnít see enough dismemberment and gore during the first few minutes of the movie, they cheerfully expand on the carnage in additional flashbacks. Because the film is downright torpid between hackings, this may be a type of blessing.
But the film achieves truly surreal proportions when an assailantís tattoo becomes animated. The wings on the sides of a heart tattoo start flapping as if the tat itself were eager to flee the movie and chew out its agent. Lohan is possibly not the only person with a substance abuse problem here.
Because Siverston has no idea how to stage chills, itís not surprising that he canít handle eroticism either. Lohan and the actresses who lack anti-nudity clauses in their contracts look more sleepy than sexy during the gentlemanís club sequences.
As with the gore, Siverston and Hammond repeat these scenes, too, for audiences who dozed off during the dialogue. During a bus trip, a wise fellow tells an injured Dakota, ďPeople get cut. Thatís life.ĒThe only good that could possibly come out of this listless little stinker is that it might frighten addicts into seeking help immediately. There is no way that Lohan was in her right mind when she signed the contract for this one.