Ali G Indahouse

The brother from outta Staines

Allowed to take just one colleague to the premiere of Ali G Indahouse, I anticipate ugly scenes in the office, possibly involving cuss words and Uzis. After all, Ali is a popular fellow. A black wannabe, straight outta Staines, Mr G is fixated on brand names and the size of his penis ("phallogocentric" probably isn't a word he would use to describe himself, but it fits him to a T). More importantly, he's a modern-day icon thanks to his skewering of condescending, invariably middle-class "experts" on Channel 4's Da Ali G Show, and his taste for airing flagrant slang (such as "punani") on Radio 1. He's loved by young and old and Madonna. And yet, incredibly, I find myself trekking off to Leicester Square on my own. The thought occurs: Iz it because I iz smelly?

An alternative explanation. Making reference to the presence of Charles Dance in the movie, Ali G (ie Sacha Baron Cohen, his creator) wrote in last month's Esquire: "We tried to get da geezer from Die Hard, but him fought da script was shite. But Dance, him didn't care. Golden Child was a long time ago, if you know what I'm sayin'." Maybe my colleagues took Ali G at his own word, assuming the Staines lad's big-screen debut would be a cynical cash cow, of zero interest to his more sophisticated fans. Me, I chuckled helplessly at such an obvious double bluff. How could that irreverent wit fail to enliven the thing itself?

Ah well, you live and learn. Ali G Indahouse, written by Cohen with his regular collaborator Dan Mazer, and directed by first-timer Mark Mylod, starts well, with Ali cruising in South Central LA, saving "hos" and receiving blow jobs in reward. The camera zips around to thumping rap, the sight of our naive superfly up against hardcore Latinos genuinely amusing, the cultural cringe in reverse. But when that dream pops ­ it's not hos servicing Ali's private parts, but his dog, 2 Pac ­ so does the film. The mongrel gnaws away under the bedclothes; Ali's sweet old granny wanders in and (twist!) tells him off for getting blown by a dog. It's just started and already you feel your whole body trembling with the urge to yawn.

It's worth pointing out, for those determined to solve the riddle of Ali's racial identity, that his nan is white, as are all the members of his posse and his care-worker girlfriend, Me Julie (Kellie Bright); that no references are made to Ali's Asian uncle, Jamal, but our boy does dance to bhangra music; that he has a secret afro but, years ago, sported flowing, greasy locks, along with New Romantic garb and a face like a constipated horse. Which all adds up to... fascinating glimmers but a bit of a fudge. After this, people will be more confused, not less, about what the G stands for.

It's a shame. Ali G is essentially a Great British fabulist, like Just William or Billy Liar; but those characters work because you believe in the domestic clutter ­ the too-solid reality ­ they're trying to escape. A feature film was the perfect place to pin Ali down; instead, it becomes a showcase for his delusions. Thanks to the evil machinations of deputy prime minister Carlton (Charles Dance), Ali becomes the MP for Staines. Carlton hopes that Ali will prove a liability and so bring down his leader (Michael Gambon). In fact, Ali's homeboy truths make him the voice of the nation.

Fittingly, no one else gets a look in. Me Julie, a figure hitherto as mysterious as Mycroft Holmes, (Sherlock's smarter brother), turns out to be a non-event. Ditto Ali's best friend, Ricky C (Martin Freeman, The Office's doleful Tim). We see a wide-awake Ali surrounded by buff ladies, stoned on the best puff the Customs office can muster, and dismissing his enemies as "batty men". He's prodded on this issue, but never poked. Significantly, even though Ali G's friends have a go at buggering each other, he doesn't get involved. Bold move, Sir!

Also crucial is that Ali G should be seen mocking the powerful. In the TV show, such satire was hilarious because the authority figures were real and their views as bizarre as they were hardline (remember the Orange Lodge Grand Master, who admitted that he would never "get jiggy" with a Catholic girl, even if the three Corrs walked in and asked him to marry them?) The scripted assaults don't crackle with anything like the same voltage. Contrary to the posters' warning, Blair need not beware. Carlton could be an ambitious tight-arse from any era, and his downfall (brought about by a gangland ceasefire) is oh so upbeat. As for dressing him up in a tight red skirt as a punishment ­ it's like Kenny Everett never went away.

It's important to stress, of course, that what Ali G hopes to remind us of is not clapped-out British TV but gross-out US humour in the Farrelly Brothers styley. Fair dues ­ Kenny probably couldn't have got away with showing a Chinese ambassador ejecting a ping-pong ball from her vagina. But so what? Ali G, like Adrian Edmonson's Guest House Paradiso, misses the point about no-brainer comedy ­ that it needs to be shocking, as well as disgusting.

The rumour, inevitably, is that in being reduced from an original cut running over two hours, the film is but a shadow of its former self. I'm a sucker for any conspiracy theory and am therefore happy to believe that much of what's wrong with Ali G Indahouse has been caused by the cold feet of those cautious Working Title producers, Tim Bevan and Eric Fellner. The sharpest scenes wrap up too soon. Ali's sensual sucking of the Queen's finger, for example, during a visit to the Palace, is properly astounding. She's the only plain, middle-aged woman he does fancy and when he pulls down her pants ("A shaven haven" he muses dreamily. "Respect!"), you want to know how she reacts (how nice if she'd been amused).

Then there's Ali's dream of a sex romp between Naomi Campbell and Me Julie, which has disappeared completely. Campbell pops up in an earlier scene and what stands out is her posh accent (like Ali G, she's a construct, but she's moved up, rather than down, the social scale). She and Julie feigning attraction for each other would have been truly unsettling ­ the sort of celebrity-meets-cleaning lady action you never see in glossy mags. Or films aimed at insecure teenage boys. This childs-play needs to be longer, filthier and uncut. What's the point of Ali if he doesn't go the whole way?

Ultimately, only Cohen can tell us that. It's perhaps revealing that, these days, the Cambridge graduate will only be interviewed in character. Like the timid millionaire who dresses up as Batman, he's burying himself in disguise. Steve Coogan seemed to be heading that way with Alan Partridge and Tony Ferrino, but even he wants to move on (his forthcoming project, 24 Hour Party People, is the antithesis of Ali G.) Cape fetishes and mental frailty aside, the only other excuse for a film like this is age. Most comedians sell out at, ooh, 45. Cohen's 31. Good God, man, why the rush?

It's hard to know who else to blame. Another director with more experience might have gone for more dazzling visuals to distract us from the lumpen script (despite the presence of ace cinematographers Seamus McGarvey and Ashley Rowe, the film looks as rootless as a pop video and as drear as an ad for the Green Cross Code). Better still, a more assertive director might have put his foot down and just drafted other writers in. Mylod, a mate of Cohen and Mazer, is obviously just too in awe. Therein lies the problem. Respect: it'll be the death of Ali G.