In "88 Minutes," a gimmicky crime thriller directed by Jon Avnet, Al Pacino plays Jack Gramm, a forensic psychiatrist and university professor whose testimony played a crucial role in the conviction of a serial killer nine years earlier. Now, on the day the man is to be executed, Jack receives an anonymous phone call informing him that he has only 88 minutes to live. Could it be that the doomed-to-die convict has found a way to exact his own form of personal vengeance before heading off to that great big penitentiary in the sky?
Now, upon getting this message, does Jack drive himself to the nearest police station and have himself put under protective custody, as any reasonable and sensible person would surely do? Heavens no. Instead, he races all over metropolitan Seattle, systematically confronting everyone he views as a possible suspect - which, it turns out, is pretty much any person who is in any way involved with his life - while the ticking clock brings him ever closer to his prescribed end.
Gary Scott Thompson's mess of a screenplay stretches credibility beyond the breaking point, throwing so many red herrings and plot inconsistencies at the audience that we simply give up trying to make any sense out of it. Plus, in any story in which literally every single character (including Jack himself) is, at one point or another, a possible suspect, we know we're being played for fools and our resentment towards those who made the film begins to boil over in a serious way. In the final analysis, there's really no way to keep such a scenario from becoming more and more laughable and ridiculous the longer it goes on. In fact, the best line in the film goes to one of Jack's students who, after her ex-boyfriend has been shot and killed, an entire apartment building evacuated due to poisonous gas, and Jack's car blown to smithereens, all in the space of a few minutes, casually mutters, "What next?" It's the same question the eye-rolling audience has been asking itself throughout the course of the movie. And to top it all off, the final confrontation scene is so preposterously staged and absurdly overacted that it feels almost like a parody of a crime thriller denouement. This may not be the worst script ever written, but you sure gotta' give 'em props for trying.
It's no exaggeration to suggest that this supremely idiotic thriller may well stand as the undisputed nadir of Pacino's otherwise long and distinguished career. Just know that these are 88 minutes (actually 107, if you count the entire running-time of the film) out of your life that you will never get back.
Now, upon getting this message, does Jack drive himself to the nearest police station and have himself put under protective custody, as any reasonable and sensible person would surely do? Heavens no. Instead, he races all over metropolitan Seattle, systematically confronting everyone he views as a possible suspect - which, it turns out, is pretty much any person who is in any way involved with his life - while the ticking clock brings him ever closer to his prescribed end.
Gary Scott Thompson's mess of a screenplay stretches credibility beyond the breaking point, throwing so many red herrings and plot inconsistencies at the audience that we simply give up trying to make any sense out of it. Plus, in any story in which literally every single character (including Jack himself) is, at one point or another, a possible suspect, we know we're being played for fools and our resentment towards those who made the film begins to boil over in a serious way. In the final analysis, there's really no way to keep such a scenario from becoming more and more laughable and ridiculous the longer it goes on. In fact, the best line in the film goes to one of Jack's students who, after her ex-boyfriend has been shot and killed, an entire apartment building evacuated due to poisonous gas, and Jack's car blown to smithereens, all in the space of a few minutes, casually mutters, "What next?" It's the same question the eye-rolling audience has been asking itself throughout the course of the movie. And to top it all off, the final confrontation scene is so preposterously staged and absurdly overacted that it feels almost like a parody of a crime thriller denouement. This may not be the worst script ever written, but you sure gotta' give 'em props for trying.
It's no exaggeration to suggest that this supremely idiotic thriller may well stand as the undisputed nadir of Pacino's otherwise long and distinguished career. Just know that these are 88 minutes (actually 107, if you count the entire running-time of the film) out of your life that you will never get back.