Tuesday, July 27

Listen to me: why I know who killed me is not a bad movie | Lindsay Lohan

OROn August 23, 2007, Lindsay Lohan issued a statement to TMZ in Hollywood’s dialect of professional contrition that hints at a behind-the-scenes public relations damage control. In her 11 short sentences, she bluntly admits that she is “addicted to alcohol and drugs,” that her destructive behavior is no one’s responsibility but hers, and that she is willing to take the necessary steps to get back on the road to wellness. Not a turning point for his career, which has remained stagnant for the past decade with self-referential screen roles and regrettable pop singles and quickly shuttered Greek nightclubs, that press release provided a fitting coda to the strange and sordid story. from I know who killed me.

Released a month earlier, Lohan’s mid-budget slasher vehicle was derailed over and over again for his personal life, even as his text was inextricably tied to it. Though DOA at the box office for its savagely criticized theatrical career, this widely unfairly maligned film has been embraced by a growing mini-cult in tune with its aesthetic of surreal artifice and grim interaction with real life. We appreciate the irony of a groggy meditation on the glitz and tragedy inherent in the classic celebrity-in-distress archetype, which its star was unable to appear on Leno to promote due to a DWI arrest earlier that week.

The troubled production process involved working around its protagonist’s mandate to spend 30 nights at the Wonderland rehab facility, episodes of the often euphemistic “dehydration” from the Tinseltown ailment, a non-euphemistic appendectomy, an incision Surgical infected and a paparazzi presence was so relentless that some shooters ended up in the background for some shots of the finished film. But the baggage he left behind on set only served to deepen and enrich the subtext of a gem of stealth noir, one that gestures to a bygone era of cinematic stardom through the framework of a cheaper kind of serial killer thriller. and dirty. As a girl next door who seemingly transformed overnight into a vamp with a voice hoarse from cigarettes and formidable pole dancing prowess, she brings up the thought experiment of “what if Barbara Stanwyck had been fed the Disney wringer as a child? ” to life in an exhilarating way.

Lohan first introduces himself as Aubrey Fleming, the healthy kind of all-American high school student who still takes piano lessons and stops her boyfriend at second base. Aubrey quickly falls victim to a psychopath with a penchant for using dry ice to peel off layers of skin like noodles of lasagna, except that Lohan returns shortly after along the same path that Cloris Leachman ran in Kiss Me Deadly. When she wakes up in the hospital with a short arm and leg, she insists that she is the fatal woman Dakota Moss, the daughter of a crack addict. The bond that connects these two women goes beyond being the figurative yin to the other’s yang, and beyond the Corsican sister’s strange explanation of why Aubrey and Dakota have similar injuries.

They constitute a hysterical parody of the cautionary tale projected on all young women, particularly teenage stars, that their virginal innocence can be clouded into careless moral dissipation with one wrong move. Director Chris Sivertson works with lurid joy, offsetting the gratuitous gore of gloved hands that some have compared to giallo with a tongue-in-cheek melodramatic tone that is more reminiscent of the Twin Peaks soap opera, another of his avowed influences. Let the Aubrey / Dakota duality seep into the fabric of the film by using the combat colors blue and red in the same way that others would use black and white, interpreting shadows as luminescent blobs and fading between scenes not in light. or literal darkness, but with shades that suggest elemental good and evil. Lohan is enacting a ritual of fame dating back to the entertainment industry of the 20s and 30s, bravely being the madonna and the whore that the world’s tabloid readers demand her to be, if only to show how absurd and past of fashion is the dichotomy.

Much of Lohan’s post-drying work has attempted to play on her public persona, with less than encouraging levels of success. (The less said of her confused, scantily clad nun armed with Machete weapons the better.) But for a minute, it seemed she might have a future as a more cleverly quoted version of herself, still possessed by cunning and Precocity that she showed as a rising talent on The Parent Trap and Mean Girls. A closed-minded America dismissed I Know Who Killed Me as the lowest point of a woman hitting rock bottom. Little did they realize that they were glimpsing the Lindsay that could have been.


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