As one of the names populating the very lowliest depths of the
Mercury‘s critical roll call, it goes without saying that I’ve
been forced to sit through my fair share of terrible cinema. With this
in mind, it is only with great reluctance and deliberation that I
venture to speak in definitive extremes like “this is the worst film I
have ever reviewed,” as such absolutes are inherently cheap and
alarmist, and rarely serve critical purpose.
So though my initial reaction was to clock Lindsay Lohan’s
unfortunately timed latest I Know Who Killed Me with this
dubious distinction, I think it’s only fair to compile a brief list of
movies I’ve reviewed in my illustrious career that might potentially
compete: Boat Trip, The Haunted Mansion, Herbie Fully
Loaded, Freddy vs. Jason, Are We There Yet?, Nicolas Cage’s
The Wicker Man remake, Rugrats Go Wild... I could go on.
And you know what? In spite of that rather stiff competition, I can say
with clear conscience that I Know Who Killed Me is unequivocally
the worst film I’ve ever reviewed. And the worst part? Poor Lindsay
might be the only person who doesn’t already know it.
Playing to perhaps its only strength, the film opens with one of its
several infamous (and completely gratuitous) strip club sequences, in
which Lohan manages to look like a seasoned pro (read: haggard and surprisingly unsensual). From there we meet Lohan the prudish college student, then
Lohan the torture victim, and ultimately Lohan the amnesiac/delusional
amputee. With the help of some breakneck rehab (the other kind) and
some sick robo-prosthetics, she soon becomes Lohan the bionic woman.
Toss in a convoluted paranormal mystery, an oppressive color motif,
unconscionable gore, some surprisingly limber sexual gymnastics from
Ol’ Stumpy, and a cast that makes Lindsay Lohan look like Meryl Streep,
and…, well, no—you still can’t even begin to imagine how bad
this movie is.
And through it all, poor LiLo delivers every line with absolute
sincerity and commitment that defies any hopeful wink at the undeniable
atrocity that’s going on around her. Around the point that Art Bell
drops by for a cameo, I in all sincerity began to wonder if I Know
Who Killed Me might actually be the most elaborate episode of
Punk’d ever conceived. I’m still not entirely convinced that it
isn’t.