If only it only lasted that long. Al Pacino dons his Heat dark-on-dark suit and tie, gets his hair did like Patti LaBelle, and chews his way through this interminable thriller as Jack Gramm, a hard-boiled forensic psychiatrist with a monster ego to match his media profile. Gramm's testimony put away Jon Forster (Neal McDonough), set to be executed on the day when Gramm starts getting threatening phone calls saying he's got but 88--surely you've seen the trailer. One of Gramm's students turns up copycat-murdered, other students start to look suspect in Gramm's eyes as they eye him suspiciously, and as a man in motorcycle leathers stalks him and his Porsche gets vandalized and the cell-phone threats keep coming, almost every Seattle woman under the age of 45 near Gramm is both a potential victim and/or possible lover. Director Jon Avnet has pinched out brain-rotting genre fare before (see: Red Corner), but this time he at least remembered to dial up the preposterous, making it easy to guffaw along the way. Meanwhile, Pacino spends the entire movie looking like he's the only man on Earth who knows shit from shinola. Shit it is.