First of all, take a good look at the picture to your right. WOULD YOU SLEEP WITH THIS MAN? That seems to be one of the central conceits in the wildly confusing and overbearing thriller 88 Minutes, starring Al Pacino—whose face now most closely resembles a leather Ziploc bag filled with marbles.

Al takes his very enjoyable Ricky Roma character from Glengarry Glen Ross, and plops it into this story of a Seattle forensic psychiatrist who is supposedly being stalked by a nutbag serial killer he helped put away years before. As it turns out, the serial killer is still super mad about Al's courtroom testimony, and on the eve of his execution is somehow planning on killing the psychiatrist in... ohhh, about... 88 Minutes! Since Al is also a college professor, he enlists the help of a couple of his more comely students who are inexplicably smitten by this leather Ziploc bag full of marbles.

The twists and turns in this piece are laboriously ladled on to the point where it's impossible to determine, or even care, if Al will be killed in the time that's allotted. Meanwhile the dialogue is just as thick and clunky—though it speaks well of Al that he's somehow able to rise above it (or possibly rewrite it on the fly?). The rest of the cast—especially a woefully outmatched Leelee Sobieski and Benjamin McKenzie (Ryan from The O.C.)—don't fare nearly as well. The editing is choppy, the orchestration is a train wreck, it takes far LONGER than 88 minutes to reach this film's conclusion—but really. Are we really supposed to believe that half the women in this film are happily willing to drop their panties for a leather Ziploc bag full of marbles?

Is this really what the filmmakers think of American women?