With a career spanning more than 15 years, Toronto-based director and writer Darrell Faria has truly become one of Canada’s most distinctive voices in comedy. He is fresh off two 2026 Canadian Screen Award wins: one for Best Direction, Variety or Sketch Comedy for ‘This Hour Has 22 Minutes’ and Best Comedy Special for the Crave Original ‘People of Comedy’. Faria continues to push the boundaries of the genre through a blend of sharp visual storytelling, heartfelt performances, and an unwavering commitment to authentic perspectives.

Currently, Faria is developing ‘In the Head of the Lion’, an autobiographical coming-of-age comedy series inspired by his own experiences as a high school mascot. Exploring identity, duality, and the masks we wear to fit in, the project marks his most personal work to date.

In this article, Shwayta Sharma had an extremely candid chat with Faria about his recent Canadian Screen Award wins, the evolving language of comedy, his collaborative creative process, and why the most specific stories often resonate the most.

First of all, many congratulations! You just won two Canadian Screen Awards this year for both ‘This Hour Has 22 Minutes’ and ‘People of Comedy’. One is a fast-moving sketch institution, and the second is a documentary-comedy hybrid. What do those wins tell you about the kinds of stories and comedy you feel most drawn to as a filmmaker? How has it been getting such wonderful recognition for your work?

First of all, many thanks!! I’m so happy and lucky that I get to work on projects that use the skill sets that I’ve been collecting for lit-er-all-y two decades. On ‘This Hour Has 22 Minutes’, I get to combine my visual instincts as a director with roots in music videos with my lifelong relationship to comedy (in front of AND behind the camera). One day it’s performance-driven, but the next day it’s the environment, aesthetic, or edit that drives the comedy and protects the writing! All my sensibilities are working together.

‘People of Comedy’ sits at the intersection of everything I GAF about: comedy, identity and experimentation with form. We (my comedy soulmates at Counterfeit Pictures) weren’t interested in making a traditional stand-up special. We wanted to weave together performance, interviews, archival material, and visual storytelling devices to create something that felt larger than the sum of its parts.

Both ‘22 Minutes’ and People of Comedy’ ask audiences to engage with comedy in unconventional ways. That’s my tempo. 

As for the recognition, it’s less about the recognition and more about the validation: That many (seemingly) unrelated nuances I’ve adapted over the years have actually manifested into the kind of projects I’m “hashtag” blessed to be working on. 

‘This Hour Has 22 Minutes’ has always reflected the national conversation, but audiences today are consuming political satire through social media clips, podcasts, and endless news feeds. How has directing comedy for newer audiences changed compared to even five years ago?

Over the past decade, comedy trends have moved more quickly than, say, the previous decade. Like, by the time people got good at Vine, it went away. Blocky letter memes? Gone. TikToks or Reels are even in what feels like a third iteration. It’s becoming common for comedy consumers to demand more, fast, and all the time. 

It’s important to be able to recalibrate. I try to stay true to my (or my writer’s) comedic voice while paying attention to how audiences engage with the material. And continually inviting my viewer’s behaviour into my process. All while remaining authentic and not chasing viral moments. Two really grounding pillars for me are “what’s the POV?” and “are the people laughing?” These feel repeatable within any format. That’s like 85% of the battle fought. 

You described ‘People of Comedy’ as the most rewarding project of your career because it sat at the intersection of everything you care about creatively. Beyond documenting the history of Canada’s longest-running BIPOC comedy showcase, what did the project teach you about the role comedy plays in helping marginalized communities tell their stories?

Comedians from marginalized communities can spend their entire careers performing for audiences that don’t share their cultural references or lived experiences. It’s the reality of how comedy spaces have developed and operated over the years. 

‘People of Comedy’ reminded me that audiences, no matter the cohort, are hungry for specificity. The more specific the point of view, the more universal it becomes. In a Black/Brown room, a Jamaican uncle’s accent doesn’t get a laugh because it sounds funny. It gets a laugh because everyone in the room has that uncle. The laugh comes from recognition… then is heightened by sharing a bond with the people around you. 

As a Brown, I’ve spent years trying to figure out how to communicate my lived experiences without reducing them to a “palatable” wash for the white gaze. ‘People of Comedy’ reminded me that I’m not alone in that. 

Your career path includes working on major productions like “Suicide Squad” and “It”, music videos for artists like Drake and Tate McRae, and eventually directing some of Canada’s biggest comedy programs. Looking back, was there a specific moment when perhaps you realized directing was how you wanted to best convey your voice?

Just for clarification, I work(ed) in production on those as an AD. Where I was/am constantly in the throes of the process of filmmaking: at the most practical and technical level. 

What attracts me to directing is being able to express myself by orchestrating and shaping many creative layers: writing, performance, photography, editing, music, etc. Directing is where all of those things come together under a unified vision. 

Working on large-scale shows makes you appreciate how collaborative it is. Our ability to collaborate is often the actual art. 

You’ve spoken about how comedy directors have a responsibility to “protect the joke.” What are some of the most common mistakes people make when directing comedy, and what have you learned about finding the balance between performance, pacing, and visual storytelling?

I think a common mistake is thinking that if the jokes are funny in the script and the actors are funny, then the scene will be funny. Comedy is so nuanced. It is editing, sound, timing/pace/rhythm. Musicality, colour. Relatability, specificity. Heart!

When I read a comedy script, I’m thinking about how it is asking to be shot. And I’m not saying that there should be dollies and technocranes in all scripts that I direct. It’s more like making a deliberate choice. So often people will say to me that they want “lo-fi” like ‘The Office’, with the misconception being that it’s ‘easy’ and cheap. But ‘The Office’ was deeply mined writing by some of the greatest comedic voices of our time. It was a studio build that was lit in a way where they could create moments that felt candid. Camera operators created and pioneered a visual language. Editors mastered the art of breadcrumbing heart amongst a bounty of laughs. All of this ultimately led to the iconic, genre-defining series! Because of these choices. 

I’ve learned that comedy is not passive; it is a widely considered medium.

The series you are developing, ‘In the Head of the Lion’, draws from your experience as a high-school mascot and explores the tension between introversion and the performative versions of ourselves we create. Was there a moment in your own life when you realized that the “Lion” persona had become difficult to separate from the real Darrell?

UMMM wow, okay, who are you, my therapist? Lol.

To set up your readers, ‘In the Head of the Lion’ is my (ehem, autobiographical) comedy series where a young grade 10 ‘nerrrrd’ becomes addicted and tethered to the confident attributes he learns while being the *secret* Lion mascot of his high school. It explores identity and duality through the metaphor of a kid experiencing high school as both “the Lion” and “the Boy”.

This wasn’t one ‘aha’ moment. It’s been years of operating as two “me”s: “Lion” me and “Boy” me.

When you’re the mascot, people love you. They cheer, dance with you, and invite you for cake after championship games. But none of it is happening to you. It’s happening to plastic, styrofoam, and coloured fabric. A performative and protective outer-shell version of you.

I was the greatest mascot my high school ever saw. And my job was to cheer on the people who barely knew I existed. Over time, I started to adapt “lion” qualities in my own (human) life, because I saw how the Lion’s behaviour was heavily rewarded. The Lion taught me how to take up space, gave me visibility, and fought battles for me… whether I liked it or not. 

This is still true of me today. People hardly know the “Boy”, but hella know the “Lion”. The show taps into something we all do: keep our authentic selves alive beneath the layers of the elevated selves that the material world rewards us for being.

We all do this… right? Guys? Did I even answer the question? Send me the bill, doc.

(Laughs) You often describe yourself as a director-first writer. Before you ever get to set, how do you develop a project visually, and why have building decks and mood boards become such an important part of your creative process?

Coming to the idea varies. It’s alive. Like raising a kid – which I have two of. They’re the same in that they’re both my kids, but they have different needs to be set up for success. 

But then the process of making the thing, for me, is repeatable. I have a consistent approach for all projects, which usually starts with building a deck, experimenting with images and GIFs. Captioning them. Adding lines of dialogue in various fonts that speak to me visually. Essentially, I’m building a scrapbook of the episode that I can hand over to departments: producers, networks, DP’s, production designers, editors. A living moodboard to sync us all. 

Then what falls into place is a shared language of the project where we can derive cue cards, outlines, boards, shotlists, and so on. But in addition to this “departmental sync up”, this whole process is designed for me to interpret and process the material. So that I become a useful resource for my creative collaborators while we’re on set (and are inevitably running out of time and money). 

Your work has moved between sketch comedy, stand-up specials, documentaries, live events, and now a deeply personal coming-of-age series. Is there a story or genre you’ve been wanting to tackle but haven’t yet had the opportunity to bring to the screen?

I wrote a rom-com feature film for Tubi once. But I’ve never directed one. I LOVE love. Apatowian-style love stories. Ali Wong’s “Always Be My Maybe” vibes. A love story with a quiet “message” underneath it, where love (for a person, for self, or for something larger) is what drives the journey. I love those. 

As you enter this next chapter, with more awards, new projects, and increased industry recognition, what kind of impact do you hope your work has on the next generation of Canadian storytellers?

It’s a long-ass game, and formats will deceive you because they change so quickly. Like, think about all those directors that directed 90’s sitcoms. Where they at? So work on your POV and work on the human connection part. You can learn formats – that’s the easy part. And don’t ask for permission to take up space, especially with digital – you can just take up space. Oh, and finish things you start. Even if they’re not good. You don’t even have to “put them out there”. But just finish them, FFS. I can navigate big rooms because of what I learned from seeing projects through in little rooms. Seeing projects through is like extended film school. ALSO, you are also NOT your IMDb credits page; you are responsible for your next thing, so keep working on YOU doggg! Oh, and ask your peers for help! Like, guys, be resources for each other. When someone wins, you all win! 

Oh, and one thing I didn’t personally experience, but I’m told works: if you can, have unfathomably rich parents who already work in the industry. AIIIIGHT PEACE!!