There’s a special place in horror hell reserved for sequels that don’t need to exist. Right next to Jaws: The Revenge and Exorcist II: The Heretic sits I Still Know What You Did Last Summer, a film so creatively bankrupt it makes the original look like Hitchcock. This is the cinematic equivalent of finding last week’s tuna salad in the fridge and thinking, “Eh, let’s just add mayonnaise and hope nobody notices.”
The title alone tells you everything: “I Still Know.” Still? We get it, fisherman. You’ve been keeping tabs for two years. Maybe instead of slashing teenagers with a hook, invest in a journal. Therapy exists.
From Fishing Towns to the Bahamas, Because Reasons
The first film worked (sort of) because it had a coastal small-town vibe. Fisherman. Boats. Fog. Here, our heroes win an all-expenses-paid vacation to the Bahamas through the world’s dumbest radio trivia contest: “What’s the capital of Brazil?” Julie and Karla confidently answer “Rio.” Which is wrong. It’s Brasília. And that’s the entire hinge on which this plot turns.
Yes, folks. An international serial killer operation, multiple murders, and an elaborate island trap—all because someone flunked 8th-grade geography. It’s less horror and more Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader? with blood.
Jennifer Love Hewitt Screams for 100 Minutes
Jennifer Love Hewitt returns as Julie James, still traumatized, still paranoid, and still sporting the kind of tank tops that Dimension Films marketed harder than the script. She spends the movie either wide-eyed, screaming, or whispering Ray’s name like it’s a dying prayer. At one point, she sings karaoke in a beach bar, only for the screen to display, “I Still Know What You Did Last Summer.” This should be chilling. Instead, it’s hilarious—like the killer hacked Microsoft PowerPoint.
Hewitt does her best, but the material gives her less depth than a rain puddle. Julie’s entire arc is: still scared, still running, still in low-rise jeans.
Freddie Prinze Jr. Takes the Scenic Route
Freddie Prinze Jr. barely makes it into this movie. He spends the first half injured, separated, or in transit like he’s stuck in his own spinoff called Planes, Trains, and Fishermen. His subplot involves pawning an engagement ring for a revolver, which is the most depressing romantic gesture ever captured on film. When he finally does show up, he’s sweaty, limping, and somehow still less miserable than the audience.
Enter Brandy, Exit Dignity
The movie’s idea of “fresh blood” was casting Brandy as Karla, Julie’s college roommate, and Mekhi Phifer as her boyfriend Tyrell. Both are walking stereotypes: the sassy best friend and the horny boyfriend doomed by genre law. Brandy spends the runtime giving pep talks, screaming, and falling through glass ceilings. Mekhi spends it trying to get laid and gets skewered for his troubles.
To Brandy’s credit, she actually survives. But you can feel the producers hovering, ready to cash in on her MTV fame. At one point she’s running in platform sandals, and you realize the real miracle is that she didn’t sprain both ankles before the fisherman got her.
Jack Black in Dreadlocks. Yes, Really.
Every bad horror sequel needs one moment so embarrassing it becomes legend. Here, it’s Jack Black, uncredited, playing Titus, a white dreadlocked stoner pool boy who thinks he’s in a Cheech & Chong reboot. He sells weed, cracks jokes, and gets hooked (literally). It’s a performance so painful you want to call the Screen Actors Guild and ask for a wellness check.
If the killer had shown up five minutes earlier, the audience would’ve sent him a thank-you card.
The Fisherman, Now with a Plus-One
Muse Watson returns as Ben Willis, the hook-handed murderer. He’s still wearing his rubber rain slicker despite being in the Bahamas, proving his dedication to the bit. But this time, he’s joined by his son, Will Benson. Yes, that’s the twist: “Will Benson.” As in “Will Ben’s Son.”
This is not a joke. That is the actual reveal. The kind of pun that would get rejected at a dad-joke convention. It makes Scooby-Doo villains look subtle. Imagine surviving two movies’ worth of trauma only to discover the killer’s identity is literally a word puzzle. Julie should’ve dropped dead from sheer embarrassment.
Set Pieces of Stupidity
The kills are uninspired, but the setups are absurd:
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Julie trapped in a tanning bed, screaming while her friends fumble around with broken glass.
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The housekeeper sliced up in a jump scare so lazy it feels like an unpaid intern filmed it.
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Brandy being yeeted through a glass ceiling, because apparently OSHA doesn’t exist in the Bahamas.
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Ray fighting Will Benson in a graveyard during a storm, because sequels must end with lightning and rain.
By the time Julie shoots Ben Willis dead, you’re half-convinced the fisherman’s real superpower is surviving terrible screenwriting.
Horror Logic at Its Dumbest
The island is cut off by a storm, the phones don’t work, and all the boats are gone. Which is standard slasher procedure. But somehow, despite being a tourist resort, nobody else exists. No guests. No staff. Just the main cast and a body count. It’s like the Bahamas were cleared out for spring cleaning.
And let’s not forget the voodoo subplot, featuring Estes, the resort porter, who apparently practices supernatural arts in his spare time. He tries to warn everyone with cryptic mutterings and chicken bones, but mostly comes off like the script’s attempt to pad the runtime.
That Ending, Again
Just when you think it’s over, the movie throws in a fake-out scare: Julie and Ray, now married, are at home. Julie looks in the mirror and sees Ben under the bed, yanking her down into horror cliché limbo. It’s not scary. It’s not clever. It’s the cinematic equivalent of a rubber snake popping out of a can of peanuts.
Box Office Success, Creative Bankruptcy
Here’s the kicker: the movie made $84 million worldwide. It’s proof that 90s audiences would pay to watch anything involving Hewitt, Prinze Jr., and a fisherman with a hook. Critics hated it, fans mocked it, and yet it bankrolled future straight-to-video sequels like I’ll Always Know What You Did Last Summer, which makes this look like Shakespeare.
Final Verdict
I Still Know What You Did Last Summer is a masterclass in slasher stupidity: geography errors, puns as plot twists, Jack Black in dreadlocks, and a killer who apparently has a subscription to Condé Nast Traveler. It’s not scary. It’s not suspenseful. It’s barely coherent. But it is entertaining—in the same way watching a blender explode at a dinner party is entertaining.
If you’re looking for a movie where Jennifer Love Hewitt screams, Brandy runs, Freddie Prinze Jr. limps, and a fisherman somehow books flights to the Bahamas without raising suspicion, this is your masterpiece. For everyone else: I still know what you should do—skip it.
