If I hadn’t been near-stunned into a case of blogger’s block by the crazy-paved plotting of I Know Who Killed Me, believe me, I wouldn’t be about to compare it to the work of Dario Argento. Now don’t get me wrong, Lindsay Lohan’s first foray into horror-thriller territory definitely isn’t up there with any of Argento’s, but there are a couple of similarities... a bright blue-and-red colour palette, for instance; the way that half the plot has absolutely nothing to do with the other half; and the fact that it doesn’t really make a whole lot of sense.
But the similarities end there. Certainly, there aren’t any bravura moments, major shocks or, most disappointingly of all, suspenseful sequences in I Know Who Killed Me. No, what it most resembles is a TV movie – which would normally be a compliment were it not for the fact that TV movies get the business done in 85 minutes, whereas IKWKM lasts an eternity-baiting 105 minutes. And feels longer.
Aptly enough, considering the subject-matter, I’m in two minds about the film. It’s obviously cobbled together from a bunch of ideas rather than a desire to tell a story, but some of those ideas are pretty interesting (frustratingly, I can’t elaborate on them without spoiling the film’s only strengths). What it needed was a strong central presence to bring them all together. What it got was Lindsay Lohan.
Just try getting a handle on Lohan’s character in the first twenty minutes of this film. As we open, she’s pole-dancing in a strip club. Then she’s reading out one of her short story compositions in a lecture theatre. (Is she a student? An author?) Then she’s a virtuoso pianist having a music lesson in an enormous house. (Hers? The tutor’s?) Then she’s in science class. (Just how old is she meant to be?) And all that’s before she’s kidnapped and tortured by a limb-lopping serial killer in a Saw-like dungeon.
Eventually it transpires that, before her brush with death, she was Aubrey Fleming, a student living at home with her parents (played by an understandably befuddled-looking Julia Ormond and Neal McDonough). After her escape from Captivity-style captivity, however, Aubrey insists on being called Dakota Moss and claims to have been a stripper with a crack-addict mother and eleven dollars to her name. Appealing it ain’t – and neither is the sight of a chain-smoking Lindsay Lohan with lank, black hair and digitally removed extremities. Is Aubrey suffering from some form of amnesia, or is she really Dakota? It’s up to you whether or not you want to spend 105 minutes finding out.
Ultimately, I Know Who Killed Me is a skanky film that does nothing for the downward career-spiral of Lindsay Lohan. Stripped of some of its sleaze, it might’ve made an engaging telemovie pot-boiler but, as it is, it’s just passably watchable for curious barrel-scrapers. Like me.
Oh, and look out for the sequels, I Still Know Who Killed Me, I’ll Always Know Who Killed Me, and I Wish I Knew Who Killed My Career.