I Know Who Killed Me (review)

Bad is easy: this level of awful approaches the genius. Lindsay Lohan (Georgia Rule) is a badass, tough-sexy stripper named Dakota — no, wait, she’s a talented artist/writer/musician/golden girl named Aubrey. One or the other of them — or maybe both — have been kidnapped and tortured by a generic crazy-mad serial killer. One or the other of them escapes, or is dumped by her captor, and refuses to help the FBI agents investigating the crime. Could be Dakota is merely a figment of Aubrey’s imagination, a way to cope with her trauma; could be the audience is merely a figment of director Chris Sivertson’s imagination, a sham justification for him to collect an undeserved paycheck and production credit. Meanwhile, first-time screenwriter Jeff Hammond is demonstrating his utter lack of appreciation for the minds of young women, a complete ignorance of the way law enforcement works, and indeed a total unawareness all concepts of pacing, drama, and what makes a compelling movie. To call this a disjointed mess is to suggest that someone attempted to impose some orderliness to it and failed; to call Lohan’s appearance here sad and salacious is to suggest that she’s been anything other of late, either onscreen or off. Oh, it’s all extremely laughable, but only in a small, depressing kind of way, the kind of way that makes you marvel that movies like this actually make it past the drunken-scribbles-on-a-cocktail-napkin stage.

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