88 Minutes
When I think of the great wastes of potential in history, tons of examples come to mind. I think of all the expensive, high-powered, imported sports cars that will never be pushed over 55 miles per hour because they’re purchased by bald men in their 50s. I think of the Betamax video players that collected dust while VHS was tops for two decades. I think of the last 50 years of Chicago Cubs baseball.
None of those scratches the surface of the atrocity that is 88 Minutes. Never mind the low-hanging fruit of a big name like Al Pacino, this movie was actually ripe with talented supporting actors who have been impressive behind the stories in many other films.
But just like a wealth of talent isn’t enough to make the Detroit Lions a good team, neither is it enough on its own to make 88 Minutes a good movie.
I have never seen such horrible scene-cutting and forced dialog in such a high-budget film. Unlike many Hollywood let-downs, 88 Minutes is dead right from the start, and then is spends the ensuing hour-and-a-half violently twitching and convulsing on the floor, heaving and bleeding out slowly but never surely.
Given the choice between watching this film or Battlefield Earth, I’d have to choose Battlefield Earth. Okay, that’s not true — I’d actually just kill myself. But I’d give serious consideration to Battlefield Earth before I pulled the trigger.
In fact… I was considering going into detail about all the elements that make this film such a bad movie, but I think I’m actually managing to successfully repress those memories. Besides… what fool would willingly relive them?
