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As entertaining as the world's most famous, faux-Kazakh cultural videographer is, credit must also be given to his many duped foils, whose dumbfounded, slow-burn reaction shots add another essential element to the Borat magic. But how, after several seasons of the pranks being aired nationally on HBO's Da Ali G show, does Sacha Baron Cohen still succeed in finding unwitting victims to be Borat'd? Newsweek tracked down some of the film's deeply reluctant stars to find out:

It always began the same way: with a phone call out of the blue from a producer representing a phony company called One America Productions. The producers claimed to be working with "a Belarus TV station"—too many people had gotten wise to the Kazakhstan bit, presumably—on a documentary about America. They used fake names (try Googling "Lawrence Wenngrodd"), gave out inactive cell-phone numbers and e-mail addresses and paid interview subjects between $150 and $400 an hour. [...]

The next step was the release form. The producers usually pulled it out just before the cameras rolled, at a moment of maximum bustle. Most of the folks contacted by NEWSWEEK admit they barely read the release. Even if they did, they might not have grasped the legalese about waiving claims for "breach[es] of alleged moral behavior" and "fraud (such as any alleged deception or surprise about the Film)"—which is a nifty way of getting people to agree that it's OK to defraud them.

Somewhat ironically, the massively buzzed movie could wind up so successful that any further installments are rendered nearly impossible by Borat's worldwide fame. Hopefully, Cohen will retire the beloved character before an attempt at a sequel leads to him approaching a cluster of Senegalese natives with a stack of Polaroids of him copulating with his sister, only to have the tribe elders laugh hysterically and insist on having him join them in a chorus of "Throw The Jew Down The Well" around their village's single source of clean water.