Hey everyone. Capone in Chicago here.

Where do I even begin with this fucking thing?

To call the long-delayed Al Pacino time-crunch thriller 88 MINUTES ludicrous is to insult films or books or plays or haikus that attempt to be outrageous in fun and creative ways. No, 88 Minutes isn't fun-and-playful ludicrous. Its overdrive pace (which still manages to feel achingly slow) and plot is so ridiculous that it feels as if elements from every thriller ever made were thrown into a Kitchen Aid at the Turbo Mix setting. And here's the more obnoxious thing: movies that count down to something and constantly remind you how much time is left are without fail a terrible idea. It's like having a clock right next to the screen reminding you how much movie is left. Who the hell wants that?

Pacino (looking dead tired) plays Dr. Jack Gramm, a forensic psychiatrist for the FBI, whose testimony in the trial of an alleged serial killer (Neal McDonough) got the guy the death sentence. McDonough swears the entire time the good doctor has lied under oath to secure the conviction, and he's quite convincing. Jump ahead a few years to the date of the execution. A murder with the same m.o. as the original set of killings occurs and suddenly doubt is cast on the conviction. Let's stop here for a second and ask, Why does no one in this movie question the timing of this new killing? It's the damn day of the execution, people! Not only is there a fresh body, but the victim is also a student of Dr. Gramm's. The coincidences are mounting, and still no one really calls these remarkable coincidences into question.

Around the time the body is discovered, Gramm receives a threatening phone call saying that he only has 88 minutes to live, and every so often through the course of the film, the same modulated voice gives Gramm an update on his time left on earth. Rather than use the many resources available to him as an employee of the FBI (or simply lock himself in a safe room until the 88 minutes has expired), Gramm decides to investigate the threats and the murder himself.

Since the voice on the phone is disguised, we can assume the identity of the caller is one of the characters in the film, and there are quite a few from which to choose, most of them good-looking women. There's Amy Brenneman as Gramm's lesbian office assistant, Alicia Witt as his teaching assistant, Leelee Sobieski as his attentive student, Deborah Kara Unger as the dean of the school where Gramm teaches and William Forsythe as one of Gramm's best friends at the agency (for the record, Forsythe is neither good looking nor a woman, but I always love seeing him on screen). I picked out the killer about five minutes after the character is introduced in the film. It ain't that tough.

88 Minutes is a mess. Each step Pacino takes is more idiotic than the last, and screenwriter Gary Scott Thompson (one of the creators of "Las Vegas") and director Jon Avnet (FRIED GREEN TOMATOES; RED CORNER) should know better than to unnecessarily complicate a plot that has this much potential. What's worse, Pacino's next film also features Avnet behind the camera (for the fall release RIGHTEOUS KILL with Robert De Niro), but let's focus on one disaster at a time.

This film might frustrate to such a degree, you'll want to punch somebody or do yourself bodily harm. Sure, you could credit Gramm's behavior to arrogance. It certainly looks possible that he may have fabricated evidence or coached witnesses in the past, but it was all in the name of putting away dangerous criminals. The film skims these weighty topics without diving in and examining any of them.

And that's too bad because a little explanation about motivation on several characters' parts would have gone a long way toward making a much better film out of this material. You know what? I have officially spent way more time talking about this movie than I'd intended, and now I'm done with it. This movie is slick junk, and not the good kind.

Capone