88 Minutes

In one of the worst movies of the year thus far, master thespian Al Pacino plays some grouchy dickhead living in Seattle, holding down one of those jobs that seem to only exist in the movies. He’s some sort of doctor/teacher guy at a college, delivering speeches about serial killers. The film opens with his character assisting in the conviction of a killer, and jumps ahead to when that killer is supposed to be executed. Sweet Al gets himself a phone call telling him he has 88 minutes to live, thus giving us a reason for the movie title and setting the table for a series of ridiculously implausible events. Pacino just Pacinos his way through this thing, grousing and growling in that particular way that is undeniably Pacino and, this time, really annoying. The guy hasn’t been this bad since, well, ever, and it’s not good that his future slate includes another one with this director, Jon Avnet, who truly stinks up the place.