Alas.

Baron Cohen's Brüno is a gay minstrel, in the most literal sense of the word. Just as the characters of the burnt-cork vaudevillians had, bound up ineluctably with their dark complexions, traits like being shiftless, lazy, and "a-feared of spooks" as their eyes bugged out in Neanderthal, superstitious terror, Brüno's homosexuality comes bundled up with a lot of unattractive software. He is an open hydrant of empty, venal ignorance, a fame-chasing, grandiose fucktard, all because he is a cockaholic (his term). The repeated pistoning of sucking dick has scrambled his brains, just as surely as a muddler pulverizes mint leaves. Make no mistake: It is gay sex that has made Brüno stupid. Perez Hilton has the sobriety, moral rectitude and class of Lewis Lapham by comparison.

Unlike Borat's evident naiveté, with his cheap suit and wide-eyed wonder at American plenty, unfamiliar with the felicities of monied, first-world civilization, Brüno, a successful Austrian talk-show host, cuts a figure of slippery, continental media-savviness. The power dynamic is completely reversed here. The obvious class differences between Brüno and his American subjects initially obliterate the sexual ones. It is, by now, a tired given that the presence of a camera has the taming effect of a curare dart, making people do things they would never normally agree to, but with the exception of brief interviews with Paula Abdul and Ron Paul (who really didn't deserve this, if only for his having catalyzed the downfall of the vile Rudy Giuliani's national political aspirations), most everyone else Brüno encounters is poor.

He interviews parents who are agenting their infant children for film work, asking them if their tots are comfortable working with dead or dying animals, mixing harsh chemicals, portraying Nazis ... you get the picture. Later on in the film, there is a shot of a baby Jesus on the cross, with little tyke centurions milling around at the base. But it's clearly been done with Photoshop. It's insult upon injury to make people degrade themselves in theory, and then condemn them as if they'd actually done so in practice. Three men of demonstrably modest means in Alabama, their cheeks sunken with Appalachian want like Dust Bowl portraits, agree to take him hunting. Brüno, trying to pass, engages them in some enthusiastic banter about how much he loves "vah-ghee-nas." The men look mildly amused, but again, they don't take it and run with it. There is no trash-talking about women. Later that night by the fire, he relentlessly gender-fucks them, trying to liken the four of them to the "Sex and the City" girls. He compares the multitude of stars in the sky to how many hot guys there are in the world. This is followed by an excruciatingly long silence in which the men, humiliated and high-hatted, are unable to even look at one another.

Indeed, aside from Baron Cohen's portrayal, the film is hearteningly scant in instances of overt homophobia. Brüno brushes past a group of "God Hates Fags" poster-toting crazies from Fred Phelps' Westboro Baptist Church -- lunatics infamous for being as vocal in their hatred of dead soldiers as sodomites, and more important, not there in response to him.

More often than not, people are merely mute with discomfort, politely waiting for the moments of childish provocation to pass. The Christian "therapist" who counsels men away from homosexuality, who it should be pointed out never once touts a "cure," will not rise to the bait when Brüno tells him that he has perfect blow job lips. (It seems the height of perversion and merely an indication of how noxious the film that I should be defending an evangelical charlatan whose actions only increase the torment of already tortured gay men, but there you go.) A karate instructor demonstrates a series of evasive moves while Brüno is armed with dildos, teaching him how to avoid attacks from homosexuals. The instructor does his job gamely and with great dignity. The only victims in this joke are rape-minded, cock-drunk fags.

Even a crowd in Arkansas, having been lured to an arena with a chain-link-fenced boxing ring in the center; drunk, raucous, wearing concession T-shirts that read "My Asshole's Just for Shitting," don't respond according to plan. Brüno, now posing as a mullet-wearing redneck named Straight Dave, whips the crowd into a Nascar-level frenzy about how happy they all are to be breeders (again, entirely personal professions of heterosexuality, no collective "Jew Down the Well" pronouncements against gays). Bringing an audience plant into the cage, they begin fighting, which in short order devolves into a clothes-stripping make-out session. Editing can only do so much, and while it is true that one drink and one chair are thrown, I would submit that this is standard operating procedure for such venues even when the spectators are completely satisfied. For the most part, after some raised eyebrows, dropped jaws and catcalling, the crowd leaves. And who can blame them? A theater full of queens come to hear Kristen Chenoweth would respond in much the same manner if the proceedings turned into a monster truck show. There is no larger cultural point to making someone flinch by giving them a chocolate truffle you've stuffed with anchovies.

The film is cringily thin broth, even as many will view Baron Cohen's gay-face portrayal as a testament to his versatility as a performer. Such a performance by an out gay actor would have the opposite effect: It would be the final nail, confirming his essential uncastability. But no actual gay guy would ever have made this film. "Brüno" preaches a false emancipation. It's Jerry Lewis playing Steve Biko. A shot of Snoop Dogg, mere seconds long, rapping in the film's closing number -- which includes Bono and Elton John -- "He's gay. He's gay ..." He shrugs. "OK," does more to advance the cause than the previous, interminable 80 minutes.

If there is any comfort to take away from this it is that Baron Cohen exhibits a similar disconnect and misunderstanding about attitudes toward gay men as the government, since most polls show that Washington lags behind popular opinion when it comes to tolerance.

There will be those who will tell me to lighten up, and it's not like I don't want to. I really, really do. Brüno gets his anus bleached in the movie, whereas I don't know if there is Clorox enough in the world to make me clean again.

In "Brüno" (which, like "Borat," was directed by Larry Charles), Cohen resurrects a character he originally invented for "Da Ali G. Show." Brüno isn't an innocent, like Borat is. He's the gay, German-speaking, fashion-obsessed host of an Austrian television show -- it goes by the silly-funny title "Funkyzeit Mit Bruno" -- who, yearning for success and celebrity in America, moves to Los Angeles to kick-start what he's sure will be a stellar career. Brüno may be gay, but his hair is bi, a two-tone thatch of black roots and platinum. The rest of his body is completely hairless, and he's devoted to keeping it as sleek and pristine as possible (he makes a grand fuss about booking an appointment to get his anus bleached). Brüno is admirably buff and likes outlandish clothes: When he tries to join the Alabama National Guard, he accents his fatigues with a nonregulation neckerchief and a Dolce & Gabbana belt -- he looks like a Boy Scout gunning for a merit badge in fashion.

Brüno likes sex with men, and lots of it: The accouterments that help him get off include a fire extinguisher and a special dildo powered by a stationary bicycle. And in trying to launch his Hollywood-style talk show, he lures many an innocent celeb into his lair, including Paula Abdul (who, when asked about her humanitarian work, replies robotically, "You give love to other people and you get love back in spades") and reality-TV personality Brittny Gastineau (who all too gamely participates in a segment of the program called "Keep It or Abort It"). (A relatively tame sequence featuring LaToya Jackson was cut from the film at the last minute, after Michael Jackson's death, a respectful gesture on the part of filmmakers who specialize in no-holds-barred comedy.)

Brüno will do anything to become famous: He tries to make a "sex wideo" featuring Ron Paul; he heads to the Middle East to try to broker peace between the Jews and the Palestinians (he gets them to agree, at least, that hummus is a very healthful food). When his efforts fail, he thinks maybe it's time to go straight, and books a session with an earnest, baby-faced counselor who specializes in de-gayification: Brüno nods attentively as the guy suggests that he avoid listening to music by Sinéad O'Connor, the Indigo Girls and the Village People.

As "Borat" did before it, "Brüno" intentionally pushes both the bounds of good taste and the bounds of human kindness. There are moments when Cohen's humor works beautifully as sharp, focused satire: I won't explain the "Mexican chair people" gag to you (I probably don't need to), but it's the kind of joke that can shock you into thinking. But Brüno's attempts to lure the unsuspecting Ron Paul into bed just come off as unsavory and cruel: Paul politely tries to avoid Brüno's obvious advances, nervously casting his eyes around the room and attempting to pick up some random reading material as a distraction. No matter how you feel about Paul's political views, in this instance he's cast as an older, straight guy who's being made to feel uncomfortable by a performer who'll go to great lengths for a laugh. (In a radio interview, Paul says that Cohen's people had told him he was going to be discussing "Austrian economics.") Paul's anguished embarrassment doesn't make a very good punch line; the best part of the sequence is a quip Brüno makes at the end.

"Borat" had the element of surprise going for it: Part of the movie's fun, and part of its cruelty, was seeing just how far Cohen would go with his elaborate pretense. And in the end, "Borat" illuminated, perhaps inadvertently, some of the more positive traits in the American character: For every bigoted, pigheaded American who took Cohen's bait, there were at least two more who were friendly, open-minded and eager to help. "Brüno" is, strangely, both more vicious and more playful than "Borat" is. But it also leaves us with fewer ideas to wrestle with: Sure, rednecks who hate gay people are bad. But I'm still not convinced that making us feel better about our own open-mindedness qualifies as great comedy.

What does work as comedy in "Brüno" is the ebullient physicality of Cohen's invented character. Brüno relishes outlandish combos: He likes to pair papery silver pants with studded neon-colored dog collars; at one point he shows up as a hipster Hasid, in a suit consisting of short shorts and a sleeveless black jacket (the better to show off his buff biceps), accessorized by an almost-proper Chippendale's-style starched collar -- and a bare chest. In fact, the visuals in "Brüno" may be more inspired, and funnier, than any of the scripted or improvised verbal jokes. Here's the spot where I sing the praises of Cohen's talking penis: It gets only a few moments on-screen, and I can't even remember what it said. But it's a stroke of loony genius, the kind of ridiculous gag I'll probably remember long after I've forgotten about the intricacies of Cohen's satirical style.

And that leads us to the central question so many have been asking about "Brüno": Should it or shouldn't it be considered offensive to homosexuals? Many of us have already forgotten that some similar questions swirled around "Borat": The Anti-Defamation League released a statement at the time, acknowledging that Cohen was using "humor to unmask the absurd and irrational side of anti-Semitism and other phobias born of ignorance and fear." But that admission was tempered by another statement: "We are concerned, however, that one serious pitfall is that the audience may not always be sophisticated enough to get the joke, and that some may even find it reinforcing their bigotry."

In other words, "We get it, but the stupid people out there won't." I have mixed feelings about "Brüno" as a work of comedy: Parts of it are brilliant; some of it feels tired and overplayed. Cohen has come up with some marvelous satirical motifs; elsewhere, he's just showing how far he'll go to get a laugh. But I don't know if any comedy can sustain the kind of "Is he for us or against us? Can he hurt us or help us?" scrutiny Cohen's movies have, and I don't think they should have to. Comedies aren't public service announcements with laugh tracks attached. It's anyone's right to find "Brüno" (or "Borat," for that matter) offensive, and to make that call, people actually need to see it. But if comedy needs to come with a protective outer sleeve covered with warnings and precautions, then it's comedy, and not the potentially offended audience, that's in real trouble. In the end, the funniest and most potent elements of comedy are usually the very things we can't put into words. As the talking penis might say: Read my lips.

The strip is a single-panel daily cartoon about a curly-haired young woman named Bruno. In the first year, when the comic still appeared exclusively in Baldwin's college newspaper, Bruno quit school, flitted around the country and corrupted her younger cousin, Amy. Bruno read good books and smoked pot; she nourished relationships and had sex with boys and girls.

Much of the feeling, and some of the action, parallels Baldwin and his life. Like Baldwin, Bruno temporarily left New England for New Orleans. "There's this feeling that she has that everything is pointless and she's stagnating," he says. "She accepts this. Usually, the feelings she has are the ones I'm dealing with."

"She is radical, edgy, dark and sardonic, yet she is extremely warm," says producer Van Spurgeon, who is a partner at Tin Roof. The producer says that teenage girls and the Bruno Daily Times' 5,000 daily readers will make for a natural film audience. With that in mind, Tin Roof signed Baldwin for a one-year option on his strip. They plan to develop the script outside the major studios, which might take issue with Bruno's sexuality. "It's more risky, but you make your project faster and with more integrity," says Spurgeon, who most recently produced "Goodbye Lover."

Tin Roof is currently in negotiation with three different writers; Baldwin will consult on the script. Baldwin wouldn't say how much the option was worth, but he did say that if the movie gets made he could see "hundreds of thousands." He will retain all rights to the character and be able to continue merchandising his Bruno book collections, coffee mugs and the like.

Spurgeon says the Bruno project bears a superficial resemblance to "Ghost World," an upcoming movie based on comic artist Daniel Clowes' graphic novel about two high-school girls, although he thinks the "Bruno" audience will be younger. That, of course, partly depends on who will star in the title role. Who would Baldwin like to see? "Janeane Garofalo," he says without skipping a beat. "They want Christina Ricci, who would be fine, but I've always thought of Janeane."