No matter what your cultural experiences were this weekend, they couldn't possibly have topped mine. For you see, in the comfort of my own home, in the comfort of my own underwear, I had the pleasure of watching I Know Who Killed Me. I did this (ahem) not at all illegally, which is to say magically. Spare me the lecture: watching this film (ahem) not at all illegally and magically was the only way to do it for several reasons.
1. I'm not putting any money in Lindsay Lohan's pocket because she's a raving bitch that little girls and gay boys look up to and she routinely fails them. Seriously. I believe that children are our future and I believe that child stars are our undoing. Maybe. I don't know. I have a feeling I'm being a little hypocritical here (I'm not sure exactly how), but whatever. Let me have my indignance. She's poisonous.
2. Is this movie even playing in theaters anymore?
3. The degraded picture quality that not-at-all illegal, magical viewing affords actually heightens the viewing experience in this case. For it really emphasizes Lindsay's sickly, weathered, Hollywood-orange skin.
So lifelike it practically jumps off the computer screen, no?
4. Similarly, the bikini top Lindsay wears in her stripper scenes have dots where the nipples are. In the theater, I imagine, you have to squint to imagine that she's topless. Again, degraded quality is your friend:
No imagination necessary: her firenipples are out there for the world to see.
5. And finally, it's OK to watch a not-at-all-illegal, magical copy of this thing because you don't need a crisp picture to feel the impact of Lindsay's F-bombs. (You have no idea what I went through to get this video up, so you best watch this shit. Seriously, hours of sleep were lost and this post was delayed a day because of this shit.):
As I was saying: F-bomb impact. You know what this means? Our little girl is all grown up!
I Know Who Killed Me is every bit the disaster the reviews paint it as, but I'm in the minority in feeling that it's a highly watchable disaster. I don't exactly like it, but I do enjoy its trashiness. Really, the movie has no idea what to do with itself and I found it as fun to watch it stumble around drunkenly, as I would find it fun to watch a person stumble around drunkenly. And you know, that's pretty much my most valuable hobby these days.
What a mess. You know how when a character in a movie figures out what's going on in the middle of the movie, and that which they figure is as ridiculous as it is premature and you say, "Well, that's obviously not it," and then it turns out to be it? I can't think of any other examples (but I know they exist), but that's totally what's going on here. I think. I'm actually not exactly sure what the resolution is. It gets kinda dark at the end and you know that not-at-all-illegal, magical copies don't do dark so well. I know who killed me? Well, that makes one of us!
Killed concerns Lindsay's character Dakota Moss, who's found in a ditch and brought to a hospital. She looks a hell of a lot like a girl who went missing a few days before (Aubrey Fleming), and though Dakota swears she isn't that girl, she doesn't do much to offer any evidence to the contrary. Like, really, bitch, who are you, then? And so, she's effectively adopted by Aubrey's family. Seemingly, within minutes, she's fucking Aubrey's boyfriend. It's prettty amazing. I like her spunk. Dakota is a stripper (maybe) who's suffering from a weird bout of stigmata (maybe) and so is her stripper pole (maybe), which seemingly bleeds all by itself:
Unless her gloves are bleeding. Which: maybe?
So basically, Dakota has to figure out who the fuck she is or who Aubrey is or why she keeps bleeding out of her arms. Hint: she isn't Jesus. Also, this movie, unfortunately isn't The Double Life of Veronique, Mulholland Drive or, as this good call of a review points out, The Parent Trap.
No matter. It's not about the end, it's about the completely insufficient means. Like, the fact that the movie has a little bit of torture porn in it:
This is but one way in which the movie seems to openly mock its star. It's effectively saying, "Ha! See what your career has come to, Linds? Torture porn!" An even better way the movie mocks Lindsay is by making her character (are you sitting down?) a fucking amputee:
If only her career were as bionic as her replacement hand.
Oh, and what's awesome is that she gets this latex hand-like glove to cover her bionic hand:
That totally reminds me of Resusci Anne. I've never had a stronger urge to suck face with Lindsay Lohan in my life.
Rounding out the ways in which I Know Who Killed Me mocks Lohan is this:
Says it all, right?
I know Linds is having a rough time, but god, is she hard to pity. I think Dakota's job as a non-topless stripper is less demeaning than this film. Lindsay's just full of bad choices (and, even though I don't write about her here, I do dig her -- I don't really care about her personal life, but I watched a not-at-all-illegal, magical copy of Freaky Friday before it hit theaters and I've followed her since -- I feel like I have some ownership or something because I was there). When Dakota talks about her mother in the film, it's impossible not to think of Dina Lohan. "Look, when you're raised by a crack addict who thinks the less that people know about you, the better, it kind of sticks." In there any sentence in the history of sentences that's more divided into the absolute truth ("crack addict," "kind of sticks") and the absolute false ("who thinks the less that people know about you, the better")? It's a marvel. Even better, when asked how Dakota's mother died, Dakota replies, "O.D...duh." Duh squared.
As usual, Lindsay Lohan is the most entertaining thing in a Lindsay Lohan movie. Dakota is a stripping, slutting, smoking...
...difficult bitch, who's got a lot of problems with her middle finger:
And she says "Fuck." A lot, as you saw above. Seriously, you best have watched that video. I slaved over a hot video editing program just for you.
In sum, the only thing trashier than Lindsay is her sphynx.
No really: he has balls.
Fucking balls! I like to think that these balls, as disconcerting as they are, symbolize the future generations who will come to cherish and scoff I Know Who Killed Me when it's released on video in a few hours. It's uplifting ultimately: no matter what your situation, no matter how much your genitals look like deli meats, no matter what your blood alcohol content, I Know Who Killed Me is a film that inevitably prompts you to say, "Hey, it could be worse." Behold, the healing power of art.