Al Pacino's Lackluster, One-Dimensional Performance Makes 88 Minutes Seem Much Longer

Courtesy of Sony Pictures

Every commercial spot, poster, or billboard for the new film 88 Minutes features none other than the acting legend Al Pacino. And this prominent placement is for good reason: Al Pacino consistently brings a lethal combination of angst and unpredictability to his film roles. Whether playing a desperate bank robber (as in Dog Day Afternoon) or a cantankerous army officer (as in Scent of a Woman), Pacino’s explosive onscreen behavior deservedly commands attention. But in all of his bold, audacious roles, he allows a sort of sensitivity to seep into his characters, so Pacino’s characters consistently seem human even when he has a tendency to overact and embellish.

It would seem as though the film 88 Minutes would be tailor-made for Pacino’s trademark mixture of volatility and compassion. Directed by stage and screen veteran Jon Avnet, the film casts Pacino as self-assured forensic psychiatrist Dr. Jack Gramm. After helping condemn a serial killer to death row, Dr. Gramm receives a phone call informing the doctor that he only has 88 minutes left to live. As a result, Dr. Gramm must find out who is threatening him before his time runs out. What could have been a taut cat-and-mouse chase emerging in real time, however, is reduced to a generic mess of a movie.

Since Pacino will likely be the main attraction for the film, it seems ironic that his character is the main reason why the movie so blatantly fails. As mentioned before, Dr. Gramm seems like a prime Al Pacino role—a desperate man willing to go to any measure to save his own life. Yet nowhere in the script, written by Gary Scott Thompson (of The Fast and the Furious franchise), does Pacino have any room to flash his stamp of vulnerability. As a result, Pacino is forced to play a prototype or character sketch—he is all cockiness and bravura, devoid of any true emotion. In one scene, Pacino delivers a lengthy monologue about a family trauma that continually plagues his character. Though the scene should portray the rough character’s fragility, it is so forced and tangential that it does nothing but warrant laughs from the audience. (It is also quite odd that Pacino’s character would begin such a prolonged speech when he only has around ten minutes left to live.)

If Pacino’s underdeveloped character is intended to be the foundation on which the film stands, the actor serves as wobbly groundwork—he is unable to bring the rest of the film any sort of coherence. The narrative jumps from classic horror clichés (the voice on the threatening phone sounds suspiciously like the killer from the Saw movies) to overused elements of a crime drama (car bombs and bad guys in black leather jackets who drive motorcycles). And with plot twists that strain credibility, audiences begin to forget about Pacino’s character and wonder whether the film’s creaky narrative will actually survive through 88 minutes.

The single element that rings true in 88 Minutes is the role of the convicted serial killer played by Neal McDonough. With piercing blue eyes and a chillingly calm disposition, he provides an effective antidote to Pacino’s brash, extemporaneous style and his scenes with Pacino bristle with a tension that the rest of the film so desperately lacks. It’s a shame McDonough’s role is reduced to only a few short minutes—it would have been preferable to see the film spend 88 minutes on him.