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I Know What You Did Last Summer
Review by Eddie Cockrell
Posted 17 October 1997
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Directed by Jim Gillespie Starring
Jennifer Love Hewitt, Sarah Michelle Gellar,
Ryan Phillippe, Freddie Prinze Jr., Muse Watson,
Anne Heche, Bridgette Wilson, and Johnny Galecki
Screenplay by Kevin Williamson,
from the novel by Lois Duncan |
I Know What You Did Last Summer doesn't offer the genuinely
groundbreaking genre twists of screenwriter Kevin Williamson's Scream, but to be
fair it doesn't seem to want to, concentrating instead on many of the time-tested
booga-booga cheap thrills of the genre and fashioning itself as a briskly-paced exercise
in teenage morality that reflect it's a young adult novel origin. As such, it plays more
like one of those cookie-cutter slasher pics of the 1980s, albeit one with a greater
hipness quotient and a more competent (and buffed) cast.
In a picturesque
North Carolina fishing village, four recent high school grads gather to celebrate
Southport's Fourth of July Croaker Festival. Bookish Julie James (Jennifer Love Hewitt)
and beauty queen Helen Shivers (Sarah Michelle Gellar) are joined by their sort-of
boyfriends Ray Bronson (Freddie Prinze Jr.) and Barry Cox (Ryan Phillippe) on a secluded
beach, where they trade conflicting ghost stories, agree that most of them exist to warn
young women of the dangers of having premarital sex (shades of Halloween)
and end the evening the evening by having premarital sex. On the way home in Barry's
Beemer (he's too drunk to drive, so Ray's at the wheel), they hit a mystery man on a sharp
curve and after what passes for complex moral debate decide to dump his body off the end
of a pier and never speak of the episode again ("right here and now," says the
agitated Barry, "we take this to our graves.").
One year later, Julie gets a mysterious note with the title phrase. Estranged from the
party of four as they are from one another, the result of their impetuous act
she must reunite the young and defenseless band to find out just who the
hook-wielding, raincoat-clad killer is before they're all gutted by the fiend (who, in the
best slasher tradition, has impeccable timing, extraordinary luck and the ability to be in
about three places at once).
Suspects and their motives include Max (Johnny Galecki), who pines for Julie; Missy
Egan (Anne Heche), the gaunt, knife-wielding sister of a crucial off-screen character who
roams a secluded, ramshackle farmhouse seemingly cloned from The Texas Chainsaw
Massacre; Helen's sister Elsa (Bridgette Wilson), who is very skeptical of her
sibling's plight; and wild-eyed waterman Benjamin Willis (Muse Watson), who may have more
motives for vengeance than he owns up to.
As befits it's target audience, the film exists in a universe largely empty of adults
(with one or two exceptions the few on display are seen and not heard), leaving the young
people to make their own mistakes and grapple with the consequences of their actions. And in the peculiarly
Draconian world of these kinds of movies, class and morals mean everything: Barry the
excitable seems to be an exceedingly rich jock with a palpable mean streak, while Ray the
meek and hunky (the son of the late comedian, in perhaps the film's most centered
performance) has followed in his father's footsteps and bucks bushels of seafood on the
docks. Julie is the brainy, take-charge one ("turbo chick," the star, who plays
Bailey's girlfriend Sarah in "Party of Five" has said in interviews), while
Helen is the petulant beauty queen who, in the film's most satisfyingly sequence, gets her
spectacular come-uppance (for what: being petulant, or smoking?). Yet the movie is
mischievous enough to play with these tenets: Julie qualifies for future slaughter by
apparently doing it with Ray on the beach, and he subsequently becomes a suspect in the
mayhem. Barry is attacked but survives, while the character of Helen plays nicely off
Gellar's popular, undead-butt-kicking persona as "Buffy the Vampire Slayer"
(she's one of the stars of the upcoming Scream 2). Both lead actresses acquit
themselves nicely in the lung department, belting out the requisite screams in
full-throated glory with volume and conviction (and boy, can Love Hewitt run).
Scottish-born music video vet Jim Gillespie directs with sincerity and conviction,
creating with cinematographer Denis Crossan and production designer Gary Wissner a
shadowy, complicated playground of gore in and around a bucolic seaside village
(particularly memorable are an old-time department store and a slashing staged behind
stacks of tires only a few feet from a passing parade).
John Debney's
symphonic score gives the film an atmospheric aural gloss, while youth is served by the
bookend covers "Summer Breeze" by Type O Negative (Seals and Crofts never
sounded so threatening) and Kula Shaker's snappy take on Deep Purple's Joe South-penned
"Hush." While the latter is getting most of the airplay for now, the soundtrack
album (sadly, sans Debney) also features L7 covering Blue Oyster Cult's "This Ain't
the Summer of Love," Toad the Wet Sprocket's weak take on the Beatles' "Hey
Bulldog" from the Yellow Submarine soundtrack and original tunes by The
Offspring, Green Apple Quick Step, Southern Culture on the Skids, Our Lady Peace, Korn and
others (as is becoming the norm, few of them actually seem to have been used in the
movie).
Is there a moral to all of this? Other than to beware of seaside psychos with good
penmanship, the larger message seems to be that there will always be a fairly large market
for this kind of movie, a slasher film that is smart enough to clue the audience in on the
irony of it all (Shivers? Croaker? A killer that fastidiously cleans off his hook between
guttings?), but not shrewd enough to come up with really new ways to offer the same old
scares (although the car trunk full of crabs is a nice touch). But as long as new
generations of teenagers fall for the same old thing, what's the point of updating
anything except the clothes and music? More of a yell than a scream, I Know What You
Did Last Summer is good intentioned yet derivative popcorn fodder for the
indiscriminate thrillseeker.
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