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I KNOW WHO KILLED... MY EVENING

For many, the movie theater has a sanctimonious appeal. They're Cathedrals of distraction and we express our devotion to them by attending their flickering sermons in the dark, on a weekly basis. Once there, our experiences are steeped in tradition - from what we eat and when we eat it, to where we sit and what we'll say during those brief little interludes of silence between trailers. It's an outing, an event, a spectacle that unites us en mass; and because the experience is bigger then the film, we're empowered to forgive and enjoy even the worst of them.

Of coarse, every now and again one comes along that feels like utter sacrilege.

Enter I Know Who Killed Me, a film experience even more unfortunate then its title and the latest disaster attached to Lindsay Lohan. Lohan plays Aubrey Fleming, a promising young student, plucked from her well-bread existence and brutally tortured by an unknown kidnapper. A big bulletin board filled with clippings is speedily erected in an indiscriminate-looking room filled with computers and coffee drinkers, as the search to find Aubrey and her assailant quickly heats up. But, before anyone can say, "coke binge" Lohan is mysteriously found, battered and bruised (sans a couple limbs) on the side of a road.

Funny thing is: Aubrey actually claims to be a hard-luck stripper named Dakota and has no recollection of her capture. In fact, Dakota begins to suspect that she might be a secret twin suffering some sort of stigmata syndrome and it's up to her to save her long lost sister, still in the hands of the kidnapper.

So the story peters out, as Chris Silvertson's (The Lost) sophomore direction and Jeff Hammond's freshman script grasp heedlessly for every clich in a slew of books. From psychological crime thriller to melodramatic torture-porn, the film's tone bumbles about aimlessly from scene to arduous scene, accompanied by a notably aggravating score of piano and strings. All of it pieced together by Lawrence Jordan's stilted editing, which relies on so many fades the pacing is virtually non-existent.

A full cast of irrelevant supporting characters are not so much introduced as they are just sort of "there", spewing dialogue that shamelessly advances every conceivable plot point. There's a silver lining (of sorts) for Lohan in that there's no need to single her out thesps across the board deliver performances fit for an infomercial.

Cinephiles insisting on enjoying this heathen of a film should arm themselves with an extra layer of goodwill. A bottle of Jack smuggled in someone's purse couldn't hurt either

Learn more about this author, Jack Dulouz.
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