I Know Who Killed Me
One of those flicks that doesn’t quite reach the so-bad-it’s-good level, but more than delivers on shadenfreude. But I suppose the whole Lindsay Lohan existential melodrama has reached the point where even that’s getting more than old. Although it’s sort of trippy that the poor girl starts and ends her career playing twins. Here she plays the double role of a nice high school teenager and her potty-mouthed stripper doppelganger, two girls whose paths cross as a serial killer goes about fulfilling the torture porn obligations. I Know Who Killed Me is one of those half-assed narratives where it’s so absurdly easy to figure out who the killer is in the first 15 minutes that the ensuing plot convolutions only serve as an interminable briar patch to wade through until the screenwriter attempts to weave all the pieces together into the kind of hoary surprise in the third act that was discarded back in the ’50s as being too cliché. If you want to see Lindsay Lohan nailed in the face with a shovel, there’s that. But that’s about all there is.