[Taps] into post-Tarantino comi-crime clichs, but [updates] them with an awful, modern, bro-y vibe.

7 Minutes is a slick ride through a sexy cultural wasteland, but before the credits roll you know it won't cross your mind again.

It's pretty hard to get worked up about three thieves this dumb and this bland.

Whether because of race, shame, shelter, or fright, 7 Minutes remains white in the face throughout.

Although stylish and intriguingly told, the twisty crime drama "7 Minutes" never quite jumps out of the pack.

There isn't a character here... who doesn't feel like a low-res scan of a shaky photocopy of a faded polaroid of a character in a better crime drama, none of which is helped by a plot that's too simple to generate tension even from its narrative tricks.

All the chronological hopscotch can't paper over the fact that Martin just doesn't have that much of a story to tell.

This compact, familiar heist flick hews strictly to B-movie convention.

Though 7 Minutes does offer an impressive array of backstories for a film that initially appears to be about three semi-interchangeable guys, most of those backstories are still dominated by clichs ...

Like most of today's young directors who neither want to nor know how to tell an actual story in a traditional way with a beginning, middle and end, writer-director Jay Martin jumps around like a spastic colon.

Well, that was the longest seven minutes of my life.

It's handsomely shot and reasonably well-acted, and it'll likely get Martin better gigs as a director, if not a screenwriter.

7 Minutes is humorless and perfunctory, its heavies and protagonists never so much as aspiring to transcend or challenge the stereotypes they represent.