There is nothing quite so joyous as the sound of laughter coming from a theater full of people, and that’s exactly what can be heard almost from the opening moments of “Borat,” Sacha Baron Cohen’s uproarious film that features his character, the hapless Kazakhstani journalist Borat Sagdiyev.

But the laughter here—at least in some scenes—is very much a double-edged sword. Are we laughing because we understand and are disturbed by some of the pointed ethnic, cultural or religious prejudices that are displayed by Borat and others in the movie? Or are we laughing because the comedy allows us the opportunity to laugh out loud at some of the things we secretly hold true about other people and which, in other circumstances, would be improper to even acknowledge?

I don’t know, and the filmmakers never let on. The movie, at least to me, is an enigma. It does not announce its satiric intentions. And most people in the movie appear to be non-actors who are not aware they are talking to a comedian playing a character. This gives quite a few of the scenes a cruel edge, but also contributes immeasurably to their humor. For the younger members of the audience, who have been schooled on countless versions of the old “Candid Camera” TV show— from “Punk’d” on down—probably will think that people unwittingly participating in a gag is quite natural. Older viewers may be ambivalent.

“Borat, Cultural Learnings of America for Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazakhstan”—written by Baron Cohen and three other writers—opens in the tiny village where the fictional journalist lives. He introduces us to his neighbors, village members and family. He salaciously kisses a young woman, and Borat then announces that this is his sister, whom he proudly claims is the “number 4 prostitute” in all of Kazakhstan. You know immediately this is not comedy for the faint of heart, and the movie then becomes a deft mix of Mel Brooks, the Farrelly Brothers, “Jackass” and MTV’s “The Tom Green Show.”

Asked to make a documentary about America for his nation’s news broadcast, Borat leaves his village and flies off to America with his producer, Azamat—an indescribable creation played by an actor named Ken Davitian. Borat and Azamat land in New York, and cultural differences form the basis of the humor in these early scenes—kissing people on the cheek who do not expect it or masturbating in public to barely dressed mannequins. You know, that sort of thing.

While watching TV, Borat sees Pamela Anderson on an old episode of “Baywatch.” He falls in love and is determined to go to Malibu and marry her. The documentary becomes less important.

Agreeing that they won’t travel by plane, the two buy a used ice cream truck and off they go. This is essentially a road movie, picaresque and anecdotal, and while the physical American landscape does not appear to interest the filmmakers (the movie was directed by TV veteran Larry Charles), the people inhabiting that landscape do.

We meet a used car salesman who gets flustered by Borat’s insistence that he will pay good money for a “chick magnet” to be installed in the car, a hilariously unfunny humor coach, an etiquette coach and a group of feminists who are not amused by Borat’s insistence on calling one of them “pussycat.” There’s a disastrous outcome of a dinner party held for the traveling journalist who is learning to be polite. He sings new words to the national anthem at a rodeo. And in the most charming scene in the movie, he meets a group of black youths on a blighted street corner and asks them to teach him how to talk and dress like them. The following scene of Borat talking “gangsta” to the clerk in an upscale hotel is incredible. By contrast, the group of white frat boys traveling by motor coach (they pick up the hitch-hiking Borat) is crass and more than a little disturbing.

And in a scene that truly has to be seen to be believed, Borat and Azamat barge in unannounced at a convention being held in the hotel where the two are staying. It is here you are almost positive the convention attendees did not know they were being filmed for a movie; not only is it funny, but it makes you marvel at Baron Cohen’s audacity and, well, sheer guts.

Sheer guts is what one also imagines led Baron Cohen to make Borat so unabashedly fearful and prejudiced against Jews, and this undoubtedly will dominate most of the conversation about this movie. His little Kazakhstani village holds the annual “Running of the Jew,” in which a grotesque caricature is paraded through the streets taunted by the crowd, and he and Azamat inadvertently book themselves into a bed and breakfast owned by Jews. Your tolerance and/or appreciation of these scenes will depend solely on your personal sensibilities.

Overall, though, the film is too loose in structure, and even too sweet sometimes, for the satire and bitter commentary to take root.

It’s impossible to judge this movie by standard critical measures. There is no character development, and the photography isn’t any good—but then again, the audience has to make the surreal assumption that the movie is being filmed by Borat’s documentary crew, which you never see.

It is a testimony to Baron Cohen’s talent that Borat becomes quite real, and the audience is even a little nervous for him when he finally does meet Pamela Anderson, not only because he gets to meet the love of his life, but because you have the feeling the something disastrous is about to happen.

This is a movie constantly teetering on the edge, or falling off it, and the laughter it elicits is robust. It’s a testimony to the cleverness of its creators, and the commitment they have to their premise, that some of us in the audience will think back on the experience and wonder how many of the scenes in the movie we were laughing along with, and in what parts of the movie we were being laughed at.