Reviewed by Uncle Creepy
Starring Lindsay Lohan, Julia Ormand, Neal McDonough, Brian Geraghty
Directed by Chris Sivertson
Distributed by Sony Pictures Home Entertainment
OK. Where to begin? In the case of this Lindsay Lohan vehicle, I’m just perplexed. Not by the muddled storyline, or the bad acting. I know who confused me — anyone out there who actually liked this cinematic steaming turd of a film. Sit back and relax, dear reader, as I wax on about the horror equivalent to Showgirls.
The plot is ludicrous. A small town girl named Aubrey (Lohan) is kidnapped by a serial killer who likes to hang prosthetic limbs around his generic monster’s lair. After a few days of frantic searching, she shows up alive but missing a couple of limbs. Also missing is her initial “sweet girl” disposition. Gone is the cute school girl. In her place is a stripper named Dakota Moss(!) who won’t take her clothes off and puts special emphasis on the word “fuck” every time that she uses it to further denote her bad-girl schtick.
This new personality is quite disheartening to her parents as she spends most of her time smoking, cursing, and fucking her now limbless life away in her upstairs bedroom. Still, she has other motivations such as finding out why everyone thinks she’s Aubrey and not Dakota. God forbid anyone, especially the police, think to investigate her claims by, oh I don’t know, calling the place that she says she stripped at. You see that would have ended the movie right there and we wouldn’t have been subjected to another hour plus of insipid stupidity. From there the plot gets more and more convoluted until noted paranormal radio show host Art Bell has to show up and do a Seventies style cameo as a means to explain what the hell is going on. How I wish I could make this shit up. You know your movie is fucked when you need someone to grind everything to a halt just to bring everyone up-to-speed.
Once the Corsican subplot has been fully explained, things turn into your standard slice of cat and mouse yadda yadda until finally the credits roll and we can take aspirin, masturbate feverishly, drink booze, shoot heroin, smoke crack, or do anything that could possibly take away the memory of this horrid hunk of shit.
Are you ready? We get an alternate opening that consists of looking at one minute of light reflecting off of water. Then there’s a one-minute long alternate ending in which we get to see Lohan smirk and smoke a cigarette. From there there’s an extended strip scene in which there’s not so much as a stray nipple to be seen, and finally things are wrapped up with two minutes of bloopers. Please shoot me in the fucking face. Thanks, I’ll wait.
So you won’t put me out of my misery, eh? Well fine, at least let me save you from yours. If you haven’t already — do not see this movie. Do not buy this movie. Do not rent this movie. Do not think that it’s so bad that it’s good. Do not let curiosity get the better of you. This is a spectacle of bad filmmaking. There’s a special kind of effort that must go into turning out a flick this impossibly bad. Do not reward these efforts by sacrificing your time. I’ve done it for you. I’ve taken the bullet. My name is Uncle Creepy. Let me and my brethren be your bad movie watching martyrs.
1/2 out of 5
1/2 out of 5
Discuss I Know Who Killed Me in our Dread Central forums!