For as long as I can remember, comedy has been my coping mechanism. It’s never just been entertainment – it’s been medicine. When the world felt too sharp, too heavy or too lonely, I turned to funny women on screen. They didn’t just make me laugh; they gave me comfort, perspective, and the reminder that sometimes the best survival strategy is not taking everything so seriously.
I discovered screwball comedies in high school, and they became my sanctuary. Barbara Stanwyck in The Lady Eve, Katharine Hepburn in Bringing Up Baby, Giulietta Masina in La Strada – these women didn’t just perform comedy, they inhabited it with intelligence and wit. They held their own against men twice their size and carried chaos with elegance. Their rhythm and sparkle pulled me out of adolescent angst and family struggles, teaching me that life didn’t always have to be endured, it could be played with.
Comedy also became a way for my family to cope with immigration trauma. Most of my American friends couldn’t relate to the experience of fleeing Iran as a child, where a dance party could land you in jail and a stray strand of hair was treated like a national security threat. Ah yes, rogue-state extremists: ruining fun since 1979. We didn’t always have the language to process being outsiders, but watching funny films together gave us comfort. When we were stuck in fish-out-of-water moments, laughter gave us a sense of belonging. In those moments, comedy wasn’t about distraction—it was about survival.
High school for me was also Saturday Night Live. Tina Fey, Amy Poehler, Maya Rudolph, Kristen Wiig, Ana Gasteyer – they weren’t trying to be perfect. They were silly, fearless, sometimes messy, sometimes brilliant, but always bold. They took risks, made fun of themselves and weren’t afraid to look ridiculous. They made me laugh so hard, I forgot to be anxious.
During my time at Columbia University, I immersed myself in art house cinema, convinced I’d emerge wanting to make only high art. But one day I walked out of a Regal Cinema in Brooklyn Heights after seeing Bridesmaids, and the whole theater was electric – people laughing, smiling, carrying that joy into the streets. Standing in the middle of that energy was unforgettable. It hit me that I didn’t just want to chase the seriousness of my training, I wanted to make movies that gave people that same rush of laughter and connection.
So I started making tiny short films, taking improv classes at the Upright Citizens Brigade and letting humor seep deeper into my work. There’s nothing more satisfying than watching someone arms crossed, jaw tight suddenly break into laughter. And let’s be real: the world today is full of clenched fists and angry faces. Fear and isolation seem to be everywhere right now.
I even carried that impulse with me to an exchange program at La Fémis in Paris, where French students told me comedy isn’t about dialogue but about physical clowning and situational setups. Still, I made a short dialogue-driven comedy film, and at the screening the Frenchies said it actually worked. That moment gave me confidence that comedy can cross borders, styles and expectations.
Comedy for me hasn’t been about ignoring pain, it’s about reframing it. Laughter doesn’t fix everything, but it does help make the unbearable bearable. It lightens the load just enough to keep moving. That’s what has shaped my filmmaking. I don’t think of comedy as a genre; I think of it as a lifeline.
That’s why the latest film I directed, Doin’ It, means so much to me. It stars Lilly Singh, whose energy is sharp, vulnerable and fresh, and it features one of my heroes, Ana Gasteyer. Bringing them together feels like closing a circle. The film is my love letter to the women who taught me how to cope, breathe and laugh when I needed it most. And honestly, it never mattered whether the humor was lowbrow, highbrow, or completely ridiculous – if it made me laugh, it made me feel better. Sometimes that came from embarrassing-mom moments, other times from humiliating high school memories or just the awkwardness of being alive. And right now, when women are carrying so much weight and our rights are under attack yet again, the act of laughing about sex, dildos, love and how gloriously messy we all are feels cathartic.
If Doin’ It gives viewers 90 minutes of relief, joy and maybe even a few snort-laughs, I’ll consider that a win.
Featured image, showing Sara Zadieh with Lilly Singh on the set of Doin' It, is courtesy Sara Zandieh.
