Directed by Jon Avnet. Starring Al Pacino, Alicia Witt, Leelee Sobieski, Amy Brenneman, Deborah Kara Unger, Neal McDonough 16 cert, gen release, 108 min

IF YOU were unlucky enough to endure last week's useless Righteous Kill, you may have consoled yourself with the knowledge that it would, at least, be the worst Jon Avnet film starring Al Pacino to be released this fortnight. Amazingly, that does not prove to be the case. This is rather like surviving the sinking of the Titanic, only to have your lifeboat struck by an even bigger iceberg.

Shot 12 months before Righteous Kill, 88 Minutes(if only) stars Pacino as a forensic psychiatrist with an apartment the size of a barn and a hairdo the size of Connecticut. We begin with a flashback showing how his evidence helped convict a serial killer a decade or so ago. "You descend here like the Oracle of Delphi!" the defence lawyer barks in one of the film's less ridiculous lines.

Back in the present day, another lunatic appears to be carrying out a series of murders that mirror those committed by the incarcerated man. After a few uncomfortable conversations with the police, Dr Mad Hair receives a mysterious phone call. "You have 88 minutes to live. Ha ha ha!" the anonymous voice says.

As the film progresses, the countdown to Pacino's death - and, presumably, our welcome release from the cinema - appears variously on notepads, car windows and the inside of my despairing brain.

It's hard to know if this is a good idea for a thriller or if it is such a terrible idea for a thriller that its very absurdity makes it seem remarkable. At any rate, any faint potential is squandered in a mass of dire dialogue, flat editing and eye-wateringly absurd plot twists.

It is not often that the proof of a film's low quality can be found in a moustache, but sharp-eyed viewed should keep their eyes open for the weird tuft that squats beneath the nose of the concierge at Pacino's apartment building.

The false moustache is so staggeringly dreadful that the audience inevitably jumps to the conclusion that the fellow is part of some conspiracy. We never find out if this is the case. So the producers of 88 Minutes(what a gip!) have either left out an entire scene or have employed the worst make-up crew in Hollywood. One expects better from a film featuring the star of The Godfather.

What of Al Pacino? Well, here we encounter the oddest aspect of 88 Minutes. It's nearly 20 years since the Italian-American actor had some sort of fit and began bellowing rather than acting, but, in both this film and Righteous Kill, he seems to have rediscovered a degree of restraint. Indeed, I might go so far as to claim that Pacino delivers his least-awful performance for a decade in what is possibly the worst film of his entire career.

We need Paul Thomas Anderson - or a director of similar quality - to grab hold of Al before he goes nuts again.