Between its garish digital photography and borderline incomprehensible narrative, I Know Who Killed Me at times suggests a hack’s attempt at a Lynch film, although while one’s appreciation of Lynch’s labyrinthine constructions only increases as their meaning comes into focus, an understanding of this film’s ridiculous plotline only serves to make the experience more insufferable. Kidnapped and tortured via amputation, Aubrey Fleming (Lindsay Lohan) seemingly escapes her captor before being found on the side of the road, nearly dead. Waking up in the hospital, she recognizes neither her parents nor her boyfriend; instead, she claims to be named Dakota Moss, complete with an entirely new personality and accompanying memories. Dakota believes to only resemble Aubrey by chance, and this strange mix-up ultimately raises the question: Is she lying, deranged, or is she really the heretofore-unknown twin sister of poor Aubrey?
Screenwriter Jeffrey Hammond wants to imbue this twist-laden contraption with the same dream/reality dynamics of Mulholland Drive, and it’s an effort that now stands as the defending champion of all that is half-assed. This, though, is to say nothing of the staggeringly atrocious direction, from the inexplicable use of negative dissolves to the overemphasis on blue imagery (formerly my favorite color) to enough clunky lines of dialogue to redefine camp as we know it (“This is Mr. Jervis!”). The filmmakers mistake incoherence for complexity and random stylistic adjustments for art-house suave; there’s no method to this madness, just a compost heap of cinematic parts vainly straining for the guise of importance. Surely, there have been worse films in recent memory, yet none have been so staggeringly inept in even the most rudimentary of cinematic virtues (lighting, editing, etc.); at times, I Know Who Killed Me suggests the remnants of multiple unfinished productions, cobbled together in as illogical a fashion as possible. One almost feels bad for the film, since criticizing it seems the equivalent of beating up special needs children. Fortunately, though, films are not people, and so we can take this creative disaster out to the trash where it rightfully belongs, guilt-free and better for it.