After Seattle forensic psychiatrist Dr. Jack Gramm (Al Pacino) receives a mysterious phone call claiming he has only 88-minutes to live, long-buried secrets from his past suddenly start coming to surface. Positive that convicted death row serial killer Jon Forster (Neal McDonough) is somehow orchestrating these events just hours before his pending execution, the celebrated teacher finds himself racing against time to unravel a conspiracy so gigantic even his own massive intellect might not be able solve the conundrum of his impending murder in time.

Al Pacino's legacy hangs by a thred in Scren Gems' 88 Minutes

Talk about un-truth in advertising, the new thriller 88 Minutes has a running time of about 106 minutes, so if audiences thought they were going to slip in and out of the theater in something close to an hour and a half they have got another thing coming. The simple fact is that this could possibly be the single most hackneyed, disjointed, illogically plotted and just plain stupid film Pacino, a cinematic living legend and easily one of our greatest living actors, has ever been a part of.

Considering his last truly catastrophic failure was the 1985 disaster Revolution that is definitely saying something. Sure the man has had his hiccups. S1m0ne comes to mind, as does Two Bits, Two for the Money, Cruising and, of course, Gigli. But none of them compare to the truly historic failure of this tired retread passing itself off as a psychological thriller, and for the life of me the only reason I can fathom that this isn’t being shipped straight to video is solely because of the legendary status of its star.

Not that Pacino is the only one who should be ashamed. There is a whole cadre of talented actors, both young and old (and especially female), treading water here. Alicia Witt, Amy Brenneman, William Forsythe, Deborah Kara Unger, Benjamin McKenzie, Leelee Sobieski, all of them are wasted. Worse, they’re each and every one made to look like complete and total fools, the words they’re asked to say and the actions they’re forced to take so beyond any rational belief I almost have to wonder if the entire picture was meant as one giant parody and not as the serious suspense-filled enterprise it’s been marketed as.

Once upon a time, I was very easily compelled to give director Jon Avnet the benefit of the doubt. This was the man, after all, who gave me Fried Green Tomatoes, and while I fully admit there is a bit of a saccharine sweet aftertaste to that 1991 melodrama so much of it is just so emotionally delightful I really didn’t care. But every film since then has gotten a bit progressively worse, and while each of them surely have their defenders who amongst you out there reading this would admit to watching films like The War, Red Corner or Up Close & Personal on anything close to resembling regular basis?

Needless to say, even Avnet defenders will have a hard time coming up with reasons to support the man after this. There are hints of intriguing ideas in Gary Scott Thompson’s (The Fast and the Furious) screenplay, but only the vaguest outline of them and the filmmaker doesn’t even attempt to do a darn thing with any of them as it is, anyhow. Everything in the film is buried in maudlin cliché and irrational idiocies. In fact, it’s so poorly handled it is almost impressive, and if the director was trying to create a template of how not to make a Hollywood thriller then to my mind he’s certainly done one heck of a bang-up job.

Listen, I’ve seen worse films this year. Untraceable comes to mind, as do 10,000 B.C. and One Missed Call. But even though those pictures, all three unconscionable on just about every level, this one – even with the one or two things that work okay (Ed Shearmur’s score is pretty decent, while Denis Lenoir’s cinematography is admittedly excellent) – might just be the most frustrating of them all. Someone like Pacino should know better, and 88 Minutes is far too much time to spend sitting in a theater watching a legend besmirch his reputation into mortifying and unforgivable invisibility.