WASHINGTON — “Jesus, Jack. Why 88 minutes?”
That’s a very good question. One to which, quite frankly, I simply do not have a remotely positive answer. Let me put it another way: There are good movies, there are bad movies and there are even movies that transcend bad to become good again.
And then, there is “88 Minutes.”
Dr. Jack Gramm (Al Pacino) is a successful forensic psychiatrist and college professor. He makes a very good living teaching his courses, treating patients and acting as an expert witness in murder trials. It is in this latter capacity that he helps convict Jon Forster (Neil McDonough), an alleged serial murderer. Nine years later, on the day Forster is set to be executed, Gramm receives a phone call that he has … wait for it … 88 minutes to live and is subsequently implicated in murders that resemble those that Forster supposedly committed. Was Gramm wrong? Is Forster really innocent, or is he the one behind the death threats?
I suppose if “88 Minutes’ had been a better movie, one would have asked those questions — and might have even cared about the answers. But as it stands, this film is so hackneyed in its plotting and shoddy in its execution that it leaves the audience looking forward to the end not out of a desire to know what happens, but out of a need stop the almost physical pain the film induces.
Every plot twist, if one could call them that, can be seen long before it happens, depriving the film of any real suspense. But even worse are the leaps not only of logic, but of plain common sense.
If the whole point is that someone wants to kill Gramm after a period of 88 minutes, why are so many attempts made on his life before the film reaches that deadline? (Shooting at Gramm and rigging his car to explode seem to run counter to the grand scheme of giving him 88 minutes to live.)
While watching this movie, I was reminded of a line from the movie “Bowfinger,” where Steve Martin’s character says, “It’s an action movie. All he has to do is run.” I feel that director Jon Avnet took this idea to heart while making “88 Minutes.” Without any real suspense to convey, the film tries to get the heart racing with numerous shots of Pacino sprinting from place to place. This does not help the movie whatsoever, and moreover, Pacino is pushing 70. In this movie, he dodges bullets and leaps out of the way of a speeding fire truck, all without injury and with a full head of thick, jet black hair. Not even “Death Wish 5,” in which Charles Bronson was well into his 70s, committed such an egregious insult against the intelligence of an audience.
It’s hard not to be a fan of Pacino. Even at his worst, this veteran movie star turns in better performances than most other actors. However, Pacino may or may not have sleepwalked his way through the production of this movie, with the exception of one scene where he argues with McDonough’s character over the phone, in which he lets go with his common shtick of yelling at the top of his lungs. McDonough actually gives the film’s best performance; he is simultaneously able to portray a sincere protestation of his innocence while still clearly exuding a feeling of deranged menace.
Alicia Witt gives a decent performance as Pacino’s teaching assistant that is hampered entirely by the atrocious dialogue she has to spout. After a character is shot repeatedly and falls down a huge flight of stairs, Witt chimes in with, “Do you think he’s dead?” Good work, Nancy Drew.
In case you have not been able to tell, “88 Minutes” is a god-awful movie devoid of any real entertainment. The story is unoriginal, the dialogue is painful and the acting all but entirely fails to engage the audience. What else is there to say? There is absolutely no conceivable reason to see “88 Minutes,” only every reason not to. Save your money. If you want suspense, go rent a Hitchcock film.