When the Rebel Became the Star – and Slash the Edge Fades
The first time you shook with laughter and shock at Borat (2006), it was as if someone lit a fuse under comedy and didn't ask permission. That was Larry Charles's domain—filming strangers in real-time, capturing raw prejudice, tender vulnerability, electrifying chaos. Then came Brüno (2009)—darker, deeper, more dangerous—and The Dictator (2012), where something went seriously wrong.
Larry Charles, director of Borat and Brüno, laid it all out in his new memoir and a candid conversation with The Daily Beast: by the time The Dictator rolled, Sacha Baron Cohen had changed. He was “pulling away from that whole style of work and he wanted to be more of a traditional movie star,” Charles said—surrounded by advisors, PR execs, box‑office analysts—“which I don't think was good advice for the kind of rebel sensibility that Sacha had had up until that time”.
The moment the flicker went out
Charles remembers The Dictator's origins as raw and bold: “Dr. Strangelove, layered, plotted,” he says. But as Cohen leaned into celebrity, the guerrilla spark smeared. Meetings grew scripted. Instincts were second-guessed. The final product? “It's good. It's funny… but it just didn't reach the potential that it had”. In other words: the edge dulled.
And Charles—whose fingerprints shaped Borat's guerrilla authenticity—felt sidelined. He urged Cohen, “trust yourself, trust your instincts,” but mid‑project, Cohen was listening to conflicting voices, unraveling the film's core .
A genius diluted
This isn't nostalgia or gatekeeping. It's a creative bleeding. Borat grossed $262 million off an $18 million budget, and won Cohen a Golden Globe and Oscar nod. By embracing discomfort and danger—like that shoulder‑baring showdown in Brüno's cage‑match—he flipped fear into comedy gold.
But fame is a double‑edged sword. Cohens's trailer, the security, the control—he admitted to Fresh Air, making Borat felt like extreme sports, pure adrenaline . Fast forward to The Dictator, and the adrenaline's gone. It's Hollywood's handshake replacing guerrilla warfare—and it shows.
Why it matters
We live in a time craving fearless satire. Our politics? Politicians masking lies. Our culture? Echo chambers instead of messy encounters. Comedy that holds a mirror to society—uncomfortable, unsanitized—has never been more vital.
Larry Charles is right to mourn that loss. The man who used comedy as a weapon, mirror, provocation—someone who “didn't care about comfort or image”—is gone. And whether it's permanent? “The loss feels permanent now,” Charles writes.
A hope, still
Here's the thing: creators can rewrite their own stories. If Cohen tapped back into that instinct—trusted discomfort over concession—he could still redefine what it means to be both star and subversive.
But Hollywood's gravity is real. And once you're in orbit, it takes a supernova to break free.
Final thought
Was The Dictator Cohen selling out? Or was he evolving? Maybe both. But whatever you call it, the cost was clear: a comedic edge disappeared. And for a generation raised on his ability to shock us into revelation, feeling the absence stings.
Because when Cohen's in fight‑or‑flight—like in Borat or Brüno—we don't just laugh. We gasp. We reflect. We squirm. That's the genius. And we're still waiting for it to come roaring back.
