Al Pacino, following in the ignoble late career footsteps of big screen thespians like Michael Caine and Gene Hackman hasn’t apparently met a bad script he doesn’t like yet. 88 Minutes ranks right up there with his ever mounting filmic turkeys (Simone, Two For The Money, The Recruit, Scent of a Women, And Justice For All, Revolution ,Author, Author, Bobby Deerfield ), and while Al shakes, rasps and rolls his way through this putrefied serial killer thriller-diller. Absolutely nothing in the movie makes sense as characters babble incessantly on cell phones, the supporting cast (including a strange female threesome-LeeLee Sobieski, Amy Breneman, and Alicia Witt) appears to be drowning, and another unsavory dollop of misogynistic sadism (in repeated close-ups) gets rolled out. Al hams it up with particular impunity but the movie is a garbage dump of soulless clichés without an iota of spark or credibility. My stepson tried to convince me that it enters the category of so-bad-it’s- good, which I can’t quite buy, although Al’s hair does turn in a remarkably agile performance, so riveting that I just couldn't avert my eyes back to the plodding movie taking place in the background.
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