What the Hell Were They Thinking?!

And I know what killed her career.

Cast of Characters:
Aubrey Fleming/Dakota Moss – Lindsay Lohan
Susan Fleming – Julia Ormond
Daniel Fleming – Neal McDonough
Agent Julie Bascome – Garcelle Beauvais-Nilon
Agent Phil Lazarus – Spencer Garrett
Dr. Greg Jameson – Gregory Itzin
Jerrod Pointer – Brian Geraghty

Director – Chris Sivertson
Writer – Jeff Hammond
Producer – Frank Mancuso, Jr.
Distributor – TriStar Pictures
Running Time – 106 minutes
Rated R for grisly violence including torture and disturbing gory images, and for sexuality, nudity and language.

Aubrey Fleming (Lindsay Lohan) is one of the sweetest, brightest girls in town. She’s smart and ambitious and has the awards to back both those claims. She’s a pianist, an aspiring writer and has friends galore. Is there anything this girl can’t do?

Yes, actually. Put out for her boyfriend Jerrod (Brian Geraghty), who wants to stuff her beaver like there’s no tomorrow, but she’s the type of good girl that needs him to say the magic word to tap that lockbox, and as The Beatles once said, “It’s the word love.”

Unless it’s the grown-ass adult, shirtless – again, ADULT – landscaper, who checks her out while massaging tree branches like he’s flogging his very, very ADULT dolphin. To which she’ll respond back with a hard “Ooh, I’ve always wanted to get fucked by an adult!” stare, and daddy definitely likey.

Tread carefully, dude. She’s a high schooler.

Hi, I’m Chris Hansen from Dateline NBC. Please, take a seat right over there, ’cause according to these transcrips, you were looking to get all sorts of wood worked on, and I’m not just referring to the trees in the Flemings’ yard.

But beyond just statuatory rape-aspiring lawn landscapers, there’s even more trouble lurking through the neighborhood in the form of a serial killer who abducts and tortures young women, holding them captive for weeks before finally murdering them.

Oh. my. God… and to think Aubrey was the tease.

Aubrey becomes his next victim when she disappears while out with her friends. As the days go by with no luck in finding her, the FBI Task Force and Aubrey’s parents, Susan (Julia Ormond) and Daniel (Neal McDonough), begin to lose hope.

But hallelujah! A driver finds Aubrey deserted on the side of the road, critically injured. Though those close to her are at first relieved – especially the Flemings’ landscaper, I bet – they are stunned when she claims to have no idea who Aubrey is and identifies herself as a down-on-her-luck stripper by the name of Dakota Moss.

Dun. Dun… DUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

😲

This is actually great new for Jerrod, though, ’cause now his chances of getting to nab that sweet, sweet Aubrey poon just skyrocketed since Dakota has absolutely no standards or integrity whatsoever.

Sorry, dude. The landscaper already got to her as soon as heard stripper.

Even with a filmography that includes Georgia Rule, that crappy Herbie film and that dumb ABC Family pregnancy movie, I Know Who Killed Me is by far Miss Lohan’s career nadir.

Well, that is if we’re not counting all the family drama, DUI arrests, rehab stints, probation and bench warrants.

Okay, my bad. That was wrong.

Those are career highs compared to this stinky pile of shit.

Every young star undergoes that obligatory transition from cute child star to grown-up, and most of the time, they shoot way beyond the moon in doing so. For example, Jodie Foster went from being the adorable little Coppertone Girl of the ’60s to a teenage prostitute in Taxi Driver. Leonardo DiCaprio went from Growing Pains and going adorably full-retard in What’s Eating Gilbert Grape to shooting up heroin in The Basketball Diaries. Vanessa Hudgens went from sweet and bubbly in High School Musical to hot damn! in Spring Breakers. Hilary Duff left Lizze McGuire behind for an oversexed pop star in War, Inc., which didn’t really affect her anyway ’cause nobody saw that movie. Miley Cyrus traded in Hannah Montana for licking objects and twerking on Robin Thicke’s dick.

You get the point.

And then we come to Lindsay Lohan. Nowadays, Lohan’s gained redemption from all her personal and legal troubles, and seems to be enjoying her recent career resurgence as a new queen of sappy Netflix rom-coms (one of which is set for release later this year). But prior to all that, we had the not such a privelege of watching her evolve from cute Disney star of The Parent Trap and Freaky Friday to flawed but likeable teen protagonist of Mean Girls… to trashy slut of I Know Who Killed Me. 

Sooo… this must be a documentary then?

I Know Who Killed Me desperately tries to be an erotic thriller, a complex mystery and an explorative deep-dive into the nature of dichotomy, all rolled into one film. It fails at all three, and to be honest, it also fails at being the unintentional knee-slapper of a comedy it could’ve been simply because of how dreadful of an experience it is. This film doesn’t just ease us into its crappiness. Oh, no, no, no. Right from the opening credits, this film bends us, the viewers, over and rams this entire shit-show straight up our assholes.

This is not only the worst movie of 2007, it’s one of the worst movies of the 21st century. Hell, this abortion of cinema is one of the worst movies of all-time.

Ultimately, this film is nothing more than a trashy torture porn flick that somehow has the sheer audacity to think it’s this grand artistic accomplishment. If there’s supposed to be any symbolism as to why this film is drenched in blue, I didn’t see it, but I’m sure all that blue flying right over all the viewers’ heads didn’t stop director Chris Sivertson and writer Jeff Hammond from giving themselves a hearty pat on the back. It’s just blue everywhere. The objects are blue, the lighting is blue, the clothes are blue, even Aubrey’s sex-starved boyfriend’s balls are blue.

That is until Dakota enters the picture, then Sivertson switches everything over to red – what a genius! The objects are red, the lighting is red, the clothes are red, Dakota’s raging hot-as-fire sex drive is red.

But wait!!!! If you think all that’s mind-blowing, just wait ’til you see Lohan in the back of a police car where the flashing siren is just facialing her in both blue… AND red.

Soooooooo… much… symbolism… my head… can’t take… it ALLLLLLLL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

See, you can kinda understand Dakota’s world being represented by red. Red signifies passion and she’s a stripper, so sure, whatever. It’s just an artsy-fartsy way of saying she’s a whore. However, I don’t know what blue is supposed to mean. Is Aubrey depressed? Is she a fan of Blue’s Clues? The St. Louis Blues? B. B. King blues? Blue Velvet? Seriously, what the fuck does it all mean? And how the hell can this mystery be even the slightest bit thought-provoking when Aubrey and Dakota’s blues and reds, respectively, are plastered all over the screen in a screamingly obvious fashion?

But even if you stripped this film of any sign of blue and red, you’d still have an incredibly shitty film on your hands. It’s a film so bad, the Razzie’s not only awarded it Worst Picture, but felt compelled to give Lohan three of the film’s then-record eight dishonors (Adam Sandler’s Jack and Jill has since broken its record by winning ten in 2012), all for just one atrocious performance: Worst Actress as Aubrey, Worst Actress as Dakota, and Worst Screen Couple.

Well earned too, if I may say so myself.

And poor Julia Ormond. I’d hate to think that she suffered through bankruptcy or some other form of financial crisis, but that would actually be the only reasonable excuse as to why a talented actress such as herself would pop up in this mess. You could maybe argue blackmail nudes as a possibility also, but, honestly, between starring in this embarrassment or risking all my friends and family seeing debasing nudes of me, I’d give my blackmailer a hand and hit the send button myself.

I haven’t even gotten to the film’s narrative yet, ’cause I spent half of this review ranting about two fucking primary colors, but man is it a mind-fuck of a story and not in a good way. The stupidest cops you’ll ever meet and the fact that any basic forensics test could’ve solved this bull shit mystery in a snap are just the appetizer. The icing on the cake is the big reveal in Hammond’s screenplay, and no, I’m not referring to the reveal of who the serial killer is, though that highly preposterous moment of unmasking will still have you rolling your eyes so hard your optic nerves will snap. No, I’m referring to Hammond connecting the stigmata to twins Aubrey and Dakota. Yes, they’re psychically connected twins born to a crack addict. When one experiences pain, the other shares it too, e.g., Aubrey having her finger cut off leading to Dakota bleeding to death before hitting the stripping stage.

Or better yet, one retarded film leading to me losing 100 IQ points.

It really is quite amazing to think that this film actually had the balls big enough to tie-in dirty little Miss Lohan to a form of physical infliction most commonly associated with Jesus. All those involved in this film are going to hell; I’m going to hell now for just mentioning this; and all of you are now going to hell for reading it.

And here’s the real kick in the nuts: Lohan doesn’t even bare it all for us. Shame too ’cause this film came right in the midst of her prime slut years – you know, before drugs and alcohol warped her into a perfect casting choice for the Parable of the Ten Lepers. These years are almost as precious and not-to-be-wasted as one’s childbearing years, yet that’s exactly what the film does. So not only is Dakota a slut, she’s a prudish slut, which makes her the worst kind of slut possible.

I mean, c’mon, what else did this film have to offer?

This virtuous whore move was kinda the same gyp move the studios pulled with The Boy Next Door where halfway through you’re like, fuck it, I’ll throw journalistic integrity out the door and bump this film up a full grade if J-Lo strips down to nothing, and you’re given nothing in return. Here, Lohan, playing a stripper who might as well be doing her routine in a hazmat suit, has let down millions of hormonal teenage boys who were filled with joy over the promise of seeing that one redhead from Mean Girls show the goods, and upon anxiously waiting with their tissues and bottle of lotion over the entire duration of the film’s sluggishly-paced 106 minutes, they sadly discover that it will never come to pass.

This virtuous whore move was kinda the same gyp move the studios pulled with The Boy Next Door where halfway through you’re like, fuck it, I’ll throw journalistic integrity out the door and bump this film up a grade if J-Lo strips down to nothing, and you’re given nothing in return. Here, Lohan, playing a stripper who might as well be doing her routine in a hazmat suit, has let down millions of hormonal teenage boys. All around the world, there they sat in front of their screens, filled with joy over the promise of seeing that one redhead from Mean Girls show the goods, and upon anxiously waiting with their tissues and bottle of lotion over the entire duration of the film’s sluggishly-paced 106 minutes, they sadly discover that it will never come to pass.

As Willy Wonka would say, “YOU GET NOTHING!!!! YOU LOSE! GOOD DAY, SIR!!!!”

…

“I SAID GOOD DAY, SIR!!!!!!!!!!!!” 

Judgment: I Know Who Killed Me could’ve fallen into the so bad it’s good category, but it falls far short of achieving such an infamous fate and is instead a case of so bad it’s soul-crushing. It’s ludicrously plotted, the performances are cringe-inducing and the overall vibe is so nasty you’ll wanna swan dive into a pool of lye just to scrub all the filth off you. Even as one of the biggest tabloid magnets of the past 10-15 years, with all that offscreen controversy, nothing Lohan’s done will ever come close to being as disturbing as watching her clumsily write her way around a stripper pole. 

Sentence: Honestly, have you seen what became of her career following this film? I’d say she’s suffered enough.

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