Why does Kevin Costner keep doing these post-apocalyptic flicks? Is it because he still owns a pair of Waterworld goggles that would otherwise go to waste? Or does he just love creating scenarios wherein women inquire about the quality of his semen?

Truth to be told, the "semen sequence" is one of the most entertaining parts of The Postman, Costner's latest overblown, over-long epic adventure. In answer to your immediate questions: no, it's not a great film; yes, the premise is hokey; yes, it's too long; and yes, it's a blatant display of self-aggrandizement and megalomania on the part of actor-director-producer Costner. But is it as bad as everyone thought it would be? As was true of Waterworld, no, it isn't.

This time around, Kevin has drained off the water to reveal the American West, post-nuclear war and winter. It's a surprisingly lush wasteland where every vestige of human progress has been destroyed--everything, that is, except for domesticated horses, line dancing, and Tom Petty. Oh, and electricity seems to have hung on, too. Wind and water power feed walled settlements where the remnants of humanity live like 19th century pioneers.

Basically, it's a Costnerian fantasy world. There's no gasoline, so everyone rides horses. There's no government, so Kevin gets to be a vigilante hero. There's no America east of the Rockies, so fuggedaboudit. And there are plenty of guns. I'm sure Costner tried his damnedest to work baseball into the story.

But aside from the national pastime, all the proper elements seem to be in place. So what's missing? Not surprisingly, Costner himself is the weak link. His tried-and-true brand of look-at-me-I'm-cute acting doesn't wear well on a man his age. And even if he had one, he would need more than a pretty face to pull off a role intended to elevate the mailcarrier to hero status.

Not that such a feat is impossible. Despite the relentless derision it suffers at the hands of the media, the United States Postal Service is, from a historical perspective, perhaps the best and certainly the oldest evidence of the success of the United States government. Before 1865, the post office was the only real federal presence felt in most states of the Union. So if you're casting about for the primeval symbol of a unified American republic, look no further than your own mailbox.

Speaking realistically, though, the leap from familiar suburban mailcarrier to action hero is a lot to ask of the moviegoing public. And Costner is not the actor to ask it. His Postman is supposed to be a traveling actor (the first of many ironies) who uses his charm and chutzpah to snowball the entire American West into believing that a new government has been created (in Minneapolis, of all places) and that postal routes are being reestablished all over the country. Costner, however, is so devoid of charisma and conviction that you wonder why anyone would believe in him. If he ever makes a movie about Santa Claus and casts himself in the lead, thousands of children across the nation will cry themselves to sleep in a fever of disillusionment. Thus, when Abby (Olivia Williams), the Postman's obligatory love interest, gushes, "You give out hope like it was candy in your pocket," you find yourself wondering first, "Would I touch something that's been in Kevin Costner's pocket?" and then, "Did she say hope? When did he give out hope? Did I miss the hope part when I was in the bathroom?"

The supporting roles fare better. Williams's Abby, though mainly an ornament, is one tough, no-nonsense woman. She's pragmatic ("As far as you know, you have good semen? I'm only asking because I want you to get me pregnant."), resourceful (she nurses the wounded Postman through a bitter winter with nothing but leaves, water and a couple of bowls of horse soup), and a much better fighter than the Postman (she's deadly accurate with an AR-15). To the story's detriment, her character fades into obscurity in the film's latter half. Larenz Tate does his best with the impoverished role of angry young black man Ford Lincoln Mercury. And then, of course, there is Tom Petty, in all of his potheaded glory--a real treat for all Pettyphiles out there.

The Postman is a Western fairy tale, so the enemy is, predictably enough, a white supremacist militia. Known as the Holnist Army, this mounted horde is meant to recall an army of Huns, but comes off looking like a collection of highly regimented hoboes (all of that matted facial hair, along with an uninspired dress code, doesn't help matters). The Holnists are led by one General Bethlehem (Will Patton), a ruthless former copy machine sales clerk who found his true calling in fascist leadership after nuclear war vaporized society. Because he knows five or six lines of Shakespeare and can paint a passable self-portrait, he has risen to power in a world of idiots (remember, these are the same people who think Costner's mumbling Postman is brilliant). Patton is a serviceable villain, but there's nothing about his "mad cowboy" shtick that Jack Palance didn't master 40 years ago.

The filmmaking itself is eccentric in the extreme. Near the beginning, an African lion shows up for no reason at all, and for a moment, we're magically transported into a Terry Gilliam movie. Later, there's a strange homage to The Sound of Music. Long, inexplicable pauses and extended slow-motion sequences account for at least two-thirds of the film's threehour duration.

But for all of its ineptitude, The Postman has heart. It's unabashedly patriotic, and if all of those beautiful, panoramic shots of Utah and the Pacific Northwest can't make you proud of this country, then nothing can. So if you can suspend your cynicism for a moment, there is something strangely rousing about watching the mail go through...hey, that's not what I meant!