Horror review: I Know Who Killed Me



Hollywood is crawling with limo drivers, so how come Lindsay Lohan keeps thinking that she has to drive herself around L.A. whenever she’s drunk and packing drugs? Maybe she’s taking transportation tips from her agent, or whoever the hell suggested she top-line this ultra-sleazy horror-thriller, an excruciatingly awful cross between Striptease and Hostel.

I Know Who Killed Me is way worse than its crappy title would suggest.

In a sick ‘n’ twisted variation on her Freaky Friday transformation, the 21-year-old tabloid titan plays both Aubrey Fleming (a gifted, upper-class college student with loving parents) and Dakota Moss (a cranky, foul-mouthed stripper raised by a crack whore). The latter role allows for long, drawn-out scenes of Lohan splayed out on stage in scarlet underwear, displaying her freckle-covered flesh to the gawkers in gynecology row and doing decidedly unhygienic things with lit cigarettes.

I realize she’s intent on overcoming the kid-flick stigma of Herbie Fully Loaded, but come on!

One of the film’s producers is Frank Mancuso Jr., best known as the driving force of the Friday the 13th franchise, so it’s no surprise that I Know Who Killed Me revels in cheap, stomach-churning gore. The really nasty stuff starts once Aubrey gets abducted and tortured by a limb-lopping sicko with an impressive array of frosty-blue cutting tools and a dry-ice fetish.

Things get particularly painful for viewers, at least when Aubrey escapes and wakes up in a hospital with fewer body parts and a lot more ‘tude. Now she vehemently claims that she’s Dakota, and she gets royally pissed when people keep calling her Aubrey. She cruelly rebuffs the good intentions of Aubrey’s distraught mom, Susan (the slumming Julia Ormond from Smilla’s Sense of Snow), then, to prove that she’s a total skank, enthusiastically rattles Aubrey’s sensitive jock boyfriend Jerrod (Brian Geraghty).

It’s depressing to watch the troubled Lohan cremate her once-promising career in a consistently groan-inducing flick, but that’s what she gets for working with director Chris Sivertson (whose previous credits include All Cheerleaders Die) and screenwriter Jeff Hammond (whose previous credits include nothing).

The scariest thing about this monumentally bad movie, apart from watching it, is Aubrey’s hairless Sphynx cat, which commands more screen time than some secondary characters. Won’t somebody please invent a hair-restoration tonic for kitties so we die-hard horror fans won’t have to suffer the frightening sight of those wrinkled, meowing monstrosities?

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