It’s Al Pacino. It’s Al Pacino. It’s Al fucking Pacino. That’s about the three good things about it.
So on to this review…
88 Minutes is about a murderer convicted through Al Pacino’s “professional” psychological testimony, who threatens Al Pacino that good ole’ Al has “88 Minutes to live.”
Interesting premise, not too bad a cast, but when the pieces are put into their supposed places, the story has just about as much integrity as a cheap local soap opera that would get cancelled halfway through a season.
With almost more plot holes, and even flimsier logic than even the Philippine government can muster, 88 Minutes tries really hard to pump you up, and nearly succeeds, if only because of Al Pacino’s trademark “I’m a grizzled pro, who’s been through hell and back” routine, which he has played to perfection, which I am still more than willing to pay good money to see. Hey, sue me, I’m a fan.
Somewhere through this flaky “Insomnia” retread, I swear there’s a movie… Either that, or they didn’t really shoot Pacino, and merely digitally inserted old footage of the guy into this stink-fest. Leelee Sobeisky didn’t even bother to gratuitously show some cleavage… But they did pointlessly blow up a Porsche...
It’s too late, and I’m too tired to even bother to string out the crappy plot for anyone who stumbles across this stupid review of this stupid movie. Go surf for the plot somewhere else.
But if you’re a fan of Pacino’s trademark gruff, go see it. Again, ONLY if you’re a fan.
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