I think Lindsay Lohan has what it takes to be an enduring superstar—she is beautiful, she is sexual, she matters (hence the scrutiny of her every move), she can act, she has a compelling personal story and now, for the first time, she has a classic camp movie role under her belt.
The problem is that most true stars take a little longer to go into supernova—Marilyn Monroe self-destructed at 36, Liz Taylor is alive but in many ways she croaked in her forties...Lindsay has mirrored their tumultuous lives and careers in microcosm, all by the age of 21.
Some observers think the proof that she is a human being out of control lies in her substance abuse and in her recent vehicular "vampage." But her judgment left her some time ago, probably when this hitherto consummate thespian agreed to star in a film with the ludicrous title I Know Who Killed Me. It had a script to match, and it now has Lindsay's first-ever terrible performance to add to its collection.
I was attracted to I Know Who Killed Me because I’ve followed Lindsay’s story closely, and because it cried out to me as a potential hoot. It reminded me of The Eyes Of Laura Mars and other ’80s pervfests. It couldn’t have lived down to its potential more thoroughly—it’s like the worst Brian De Palma movie ever, complete with a look-Ma-no-hands unnecessary split-screen moment, outrageously inappropriate line readings from a supporting cast of Z-grade thesps who look like they recently did blow and screwed each other, intrusive music and an embarrassingly melodramatic spooky score and lots of uncomfortably sexualized violence. In short, I’d say writer Jeff Hammond and director Chris Sivertson have hatched the next best thing to an actual Lindsay Lohan snuff movie for the small but eager audience that dreams of such things.
The first sign that I Know Who Killed Me is going to be some misogynist’s torture-rape fantasy is Lindsay’s character’s name—Aubrey Fleming. In this kind of movie, it’s important to concoct a sexy, hokey name that will be repeated over and over, as if attempting to hypnotize the viewers (or perhaps the regretful lead actress) that this is all just make believe and that it’s okay to get hard at the sight of a woman being dismembered.
Aubrey is a spunky 19-year-old college student who’s got it all—in fact, she’s so blessed with talents she finds she must abandon either the piano or her writing. Even though scenes in which she reads her imaginings aloud to rapt classmates fail to communicate her brilliance (after all, the short stories were written by the dude who wrote this flick), she opts for writing. She’s dating an amiable, hard-bodied jock, she’s cockteasing a menacing, hard-bodied weed-whacker, her mom has giant tits and dark hair like hers and she’s blissfully unconcerned with the fact that a classmate who’d been missing has turned up dead and absent a bunch of limbs. (“As we all know, Jennifer Toland’s body was found this week. Let’s win this one for Jennifer!” shouts an announcer at the big football game.)
Unfortch, Aubrey goes missing after agreeing to meet her friends for a movie. Her pals are of no use in finding her—not hard to accept considering one of them is Lonelygirl herself (Jessica Rose of the notorious YouTube ruse). Her parents are sad, but the cops investigating what appears to be the work of a serial killer (Spencer Garrett and a hysterically brusque Garcelle Beauvais) seem more annoyed than empathetic.
Cut to a long, long scene involving the freezing and removal of bits of Aubrey—this was when a young mother arrived at my screening toting four small children, though she later responsibly left during a smokin’ sex scene—and that brings us to the discovery of “Aubrey” at the side of the road by what appears to be a casting-couch-ready plastic-surgery patient.
Yay, she’s found! And we’re only 25 minutes into the movie! Oh. Wait. There’s going to be more. It's like Psycho, except the heroine doesn't die right away, just her arm and leg do. And a lot of what's left of the movie won't be in black-and-white, but will be related to the color blue—blue roses, blue stained glass, blue instruments of torture, daddy’s blue eyes. Blue is an unexplained fetish for the filmmaker. His answer to making the scenes menacing is, “Blue it!”...and he sure did.
"Like, wow, a giant plastic blue rose. How...creepy..."
It turns out that the young woman they’ve found insists she is not Aubrey, but is instead Dakota Moss, who we assume is the character Aubrey was writing about before she was snatched. (Weirdly, Lindsay’s real-life brother is named Dakota.) So we all assume Aubrey’s just buggin’ with some kind of reality-escaping mental issue, but when one of your doctors is played by ’80s debutante Cornelia Guest, you’re not too sure about your diagnosis.
Dakota is everything Aubrey was not—determined, profane, willing to ball a guy she’s just met (provided a condom is used) even without one of her arms and one of her legs. She also smokes—so we know this is a bad-ass bitch. Oh, and she says she was a crack addict’s daughter (getting warmer...) and that she stripped for a living, which necessitates a truly dirty scene that finds Aubrey, er, Dakota, er—fuck it, it’s Lindsay Lohan!—in the pole position.
The world's only disrobing-optional stripper.