I’m not gonna box you, Uwe Boll. Punch your way through another critic’s face, as is your inclination. But please: Let me train you. Seriously. If you’re really going to go head to head with Michael Bay, you’ve got to work on your rope-a-dope. Bay was able to turn Transformers’ hotbot Megan Fox into a passable human being. But why is it that your actors, especially Postal’s inert Zack Ward (playing some kind of anticorporate revenger and target of angry mobs—it’s never made clear), remain sock puppets? None of their performances come to life, and that’s going to cost you in the ring! Let me be Burgess Meredith to your Rocky.
Is it the video-game thing? You like to base your aggressively dumb movies on them (BloodRayne, etc.), and this one’s no exception. But notice how Paul W.S. Anderson’s Resident Evil throws in a little spice, some sweaty dance music, in between the splatter. Where’s your strategy, Uwe? Postal goes from offensive 9/11 comedy (window washers on the WTC) to trailer-park crudity and back with no rhyme or reason. Humor is not your strong suit; we all know that. But if someone’s hoping to direct Grand Theft Auto IV, he better hit the meat lockers, pronto! Eat lightning and crap thunder! Mostly crap thunder.