After losing an arm and a leg to a deranged serial killer--as if there were any other kind--all-American teenager Aubrey Fleming (Lindsay Lohan) is discovered in a ditch outside of town. Trouble is she’s not Aubrey--at least that’s what she says. She claims to be Dakota Moss a hard-edged stripper whose vocabulary proves how hard she is. Through flashbacks we see she's no goody-goody but she’s determined to get to the bottom of the mystery while everyone around her waits for her to “remember” who she really is. But if indeed the killer is still at large then this baffled babe might still be on the hit list which is where the story’s ostensible suspense is supposed to emanate from. Is all of this a figment of Aubrey’s--or Dakota’s--imagination or a by-product of the trauma she’s suffered? If it were there wouldn’t be a movie. As it is there’s not much of one anyway. As if she didn’t have enough to deal with already Lohan seems particularly ill at ease here. She has yet to really distinguish herself as a strong actress and she’s certainly not strong enough to do much with the material she’s given here. Her character simply isn’t likable--and she’s the whole show. There’s a slightly uncomfortable if blackly comic irony in watching Lohan at various points take pills drink alcohol pole-dance and swear up a storm. Oh yes and she’s also bloodied bruised terrorized and tortured--for those who care. Most won’t. If this is what passes for character development in horror movies these days then we--and the genre--are in trouble. As Aubrey’s parents Julia Ormond and Neal McDonough stand around mostly looking confused as well they should be. At least Brian Geraghty as Aubrey’s jock boyfriend doesn’t embarrass himself. But no one else is around long enough to make much of an impression. Then again as a whole I Know Who Killed Me doesn’t leave much of an impression. Just a bad aftertaste. Aside from technical proficiency there’s not a lot director Chris Sivertson brings to the party and it’s as much the fault of first-time screenwriter Jeffrey Hammond. Sure the story has a lot of twists and turns but they’re stupid twists and turns--and too many of them are introduced too far into the narrative as an increasingly desperate way of keeping the film going long after anyone cares. In the end--actually by the middle--I Know Who Killed Me simply doesn’t add up. It’s too silly to be remotely credible or interesting and too murky to be laughable.