‘88 Minutes’ is criminally underrated

In its very best moments, “88 Minutes” is as taut and seamless as its title implies—for long stretches of time, it is a travelogue through the very concept of the whodunit genre, picking its case completely apart while it casually defies our own expectations.

It seems so clear-cut to begin: a man introduced to us as a serial killer is such a one-dimensional bogeyman that we have already come to a number of conclusions as to how the film will end. But as the titular timeframe ticks down, and an increasing sense of paranoia casts a wide net of suspicion across every single character across its landscape—even our hero—you’re forced to question what you’ve assumed, and how you came to assume it, before the film finally implies, with complete, convincing earnest, that maybe everybody did it. If the film ultimately ends up where you expect it to end up, then at least it has the temerity to examine its procedural journey. It casts a shadow of doubt upon doubt itself, reminding you of your limited perspective as an individual human being, and that you can’t piece everything together on your own.

Such is the tragic flaw of forensic psychiatrist Jack Gramm (Al Pacino), he being a man who makes a trade out of turning his subjective point of view into objective reality. Nine years after his expert testimony sent serial killer John Forster (Neal McDonough) to death row on circumstantial evidence, he learns that Forster may receive a stay of execution; it seems that another killer (or the same killer) has been running around using his brutal MO, the latest victim of which just happens to be one of Gramm’s students. And the day keeps getting better and better: Gramm soon receives a mysterious phone call stating that he only has 88 minutes to live. Why? How? What does this have to do with John Forster? The evidence keeps coming at us hard and fast, and you can never be sure how much of it all you can really trust.

Although it is externally treated like an incidental fact, another fascinating concept to consider here is that most of the principal characters/suspects are women. Described as a “womanizer” in the film, Jack habitually treats his female compatriots (students and secretaries alike) with a certain dismissiveness, masked as tenderness—and suddenly you have to wonder how much of this entire scenario leads him to punish himself with his monstrous ego. Jack’s assailant has a bone to pick concerning the Forster case, that’s for sure, and has made it a point to implicate him in the recent serial slayings. But most of the film is propelled by simple conjecture, by ominous threats. Throughout the film, you’re not entirely sure when Gramm is actually accomplishing anything, or when he’s simply running around in circles, forced to second-guess himself at every turn and essentially hoisting himself by his own petard in the process.

Unfortunately, the film is severely weighed down by its attempts to literalize its humanistic examinations: as Jack’s TA/impromptu sidekick Kim, Alicia Witt lodges what certainly must be one of the worst performances in recent memory. It doesn’t help that she’s next to one of the greatest (or at least most recognizable) actors of American cinema; Pacino is pleasantly subdued, which only serves to accentuate the weaknesses of his opposite. Gaping and monotone, Witt comes to figuratively and literally represent the most leaden scenes in “88 Minutes,” ultimately unsure when it can take a minute to slow down or speed back up again. But when “88 Minutes” finally gets going, it’s fascinating: the film casually reminds of one of Dario Argento’s detective thrillers in its simultaneous mistrust and distrust of dubious facts, even though its somewhat sluggish setpieces make it difficult to really compare it to the Italian Hitchcock with any real dedication. Despite the fact that the film ends with a reassuring smirk, it also haunts the mind, as Gramm silently pockets a tape recorder in a moment that brilliantly suggests that even our greatest victories are tinged with doubts upon doubts—and that our hopes for better tomorrows might always be haunted by the failures of our past.