Al Pacino should have to answer for this
From its murderous opening scene - a smarmy, voyeuristic nighttime attack on twin sisters in their apartment, in their underwear - to the preposterous, bodies-dangling-on-ropes-and-pulleys climax, 88 Minutes proves itself to be a maddeningly mediocre, ineptly manipulative "real-time" thriller. (A real-time thriller that's almost 20 minutes longer than its title suggests.)
From its murderous opening scene - a smarmy, voyeuristic nighttime attack on twin sisters in their apartment, in their underwear - to the preposterous, bodies-dangling-on-ropes-and-pulleys climax,
88 Minutes
proves itself to be a maddeningly mediocre, ineptly manipulative "real-time" thriller. (A real-time thriller that's almost 20 minutes longer than its title suggests.)
Al Pacino, sporting a messy pileup of a coif and a perpetually dazed expression on his weary mug, stars as Jack Gramm, a famous forensic psychiatrist. Operating from sleek Seattle offices - and teaching a course at the local university - the good doctor's specialty is serial killers, and his expert testimony has led to the conviction of more than a few.
Most notably, for the purposes of this Jon Avnet-directed dud, Gramm was responsible for locking up Jon Forster (Neal McDonough), accused of stalking, strapping up and slicing his female victims. Forster was sent to Death Row solely on the basis of one eyewitness account and Gramm's convincing courtroom shtick.
Nine years later, with Forster's execution imminent, a woman is done in using the exact m.o. as the old Seattle Killer. A copycat? Or was Forster innocent, as he's claimed all along?
It doesn't help matters that the latest victim happened to be one of Gramm's students, that Gramm was out with her on the night of the murder, and that soon thereafter another dead woman is found - with Gramm's credit card receipt and his DNA all over the crime scene. A frame-up? Even his old cop buddy is beginning to suspect Gramm and his erratic behavior.
And why so erratic? Well, somebody's started calling him on his cell, to tell Gramm that he's about to die. First it's in 88 minutes, then 76 . . . the calls keep coming, the clock keeps counting down.
"Tick tock, Doc," says the muffled voice, causing Gramm to swing into action: He dashes up stairwells and across parking lots, demands files and faxes from his faithful assistant (Amy Brenneman), and scoots around the rain-slicked town in the company of another student (Alicia Witt), a doctoral candidate in a clingy camisole.
The real mystery behind
88 Minutes
isn't whether Forster is the perp, or Gramm has a double life as a vicious killer - or one of his students (the one played by Benjamin McKenzie, or by Leelee Sobieski?), or the university dean (Deborah Kara Unger), or that guy on the motorcycle has something to do with the killings. It's how such a muddled, dismally generic script can find its way to Pacino's door, and what - besides a paycheck - possessed him to become an accessory to this crime?
88 Minutes *1/2 (out of four stars)
Directed by Jon Avnet. With Al Pacino, Amy Brenneman, Leelee Sobieski, Deborah Kara Unger and Alicia Witt. Distributed by TriStar Pictures.
Running time:
1 hour, 45 mins.
Parent's guide:
R (violence, profanity, adult themes)
Playing at:
area theaters