And the winner is...
Sharmeen Obaid-Chinoy. We are not going to forget that name soon. Ms. Chinoy recently became the first Pakistani to win an Academy Award for her short documentary 'Saving Face'. Isn't that marvelous! A Pakistani winning an Oscar! When she won I let out an audible gasp and then jumped around the room in a kind of intoxicated tribal dance. I was so happy, in fact, that I have spent the last week under the disturbing but satisfying delusion that I personally won the award, smiling to myself at the fictitious encounter I had with Marty Scorsese at the after-party, having ditched Viola Davis at the bar because she was being too needy.
I know I'm not the only one who has stood in front of a bathroom mirror clutching a bottle of Head and Shoulders while thanking my parents, my fellow nominees, the Academy and Harvey Weinstein for "thinking me worthy of... wow... three Oscars! You shouldn't have." We have all been there. Well, we haven't all been there actually; that's what makes Chinoy such a rock star: she went there, and then she won. The Oscars are to many people the biggest annual event in pop culture, eclipsed infrequently by the Olympics (it's the only time in the year when "curling" attracts a global audience, and that is a feat unto itself), and Pakistan won something! For a country so used to bad news, nay, terrible soul-shattering news, this is a soothing antidote.
Chinoy won for Best Documentary Short, not the most famous but still a respectable category (better than Sound Editing I say), though it really doesn't matter in the least. She has the golden statuette, and has it for work that she made in Pakistan. She has done for aspiring filmmakers what Shazia Sikander did for fine artists earlier this century: she has given hope of success on a scale no one from these parts had previously achieved.
Seeing her up there, hearing a Pakistani accent within feet of the Bridesmaids cast, I had to pinch myself. In a very simple sense, it was a collision of worlds. A merging of the one I inhabit here with the one everyone (everyone but, obviously, Chinoy) only reads about in magazines and gossip rags.
I know I'm not the only one who has stood in front of a bathroom mirror clutching a bottle of Head and Shoulders while thanking my parents, my fellow nominees, the Academy and Harvey Weinstein for "thinking me worthy of... wow... three Oscars! You shouldn't have"
Seeing Chinoy on the red carpet (I caught a glimpse of her behind Angelina Jolie's now infamous right leg), she was described as wearing "local Pakistani couturier Bunto Kazmi" and then changed into a Sana-Safinaz outfit for the after-party. I was admittedly a little taken aback when my Internet stalking revealed that Chinoy had won an Emmy in 2010 for another documentary. Her sudden explosion onto the world stage seems more of the outcome of persistence and hard work than sheer luck or mere timing, but that makes her entry onto the big stage no less meteoric.
Almost everyone I spoke to was genuinely thrilled about the win, and as genuinely happy as I that it was a woman (going sleeveless, well done Bunto, well done...) who won. Her acceptance speech was short, elegant, dignified and uplifting, and even now I find myself getting a little choked-up (a la Sanda Bullock) when I see it repeated over the news or Facebook. There was of course the irritating Lobster Talk: "She only won because it was about acid victims"/"Uff, they only give awards to things that make us look bad"/"It's Oscar Minoriteam", etc.
You don't have to say anything in her defense because, let's face it, girl won an Oscar. Chinoy has a get-out-of-jail/get-into-anywhere-free card. There is no better retort to jealous petty talk than saying, "Two things: One, I thanked the Academy in front of 1.2 billion people; and two, Glenn Close still don't have what I got. Seeya!"
The rest of the telecast was boring in comparison, excepting perhaps the moment when the camera cut to Steven Spielberg's face when Iran won for Best Foreign Language Film (I always thought that category should be reserved for movies made by Guy Ritchie). The shot was very, very funny, partly because of how uncomfortable everyone looked, but also because one could almost hear the ratings-hungry producer shouting "Steve! I need Steve!" the moment Iran's name came up. One of my Israeli friends called me afterwards for a post-mortem and commented on how the Iranians were treating the win as a victory over Israel and how weird that was. It occurred to me that in the strictest sense it was such a win: both countries were nominated for the same award, and Iran won it. Just saying: if this was a Pakistan vs India moment and we won it, there would already be a gigantic faux-gold statue draped in marigolds on our side of Wagah Border.
But the awards were, despite the producers' best efforts, not abut politics. Nor was Chinoy's win. The awards were about filmmaking, the biggest and most important art form of our time. And it serves us well to remember that art has triumphed here, art by a Pakistani, and we with it. Congratulations Ms. Chinoy - and Pakistan - on your Oscar.
Write to thekantawala@gmail.com and follow @fkantawala on twitter
I know I'm not the only one who has stood in front of a bathroom mirror clutching a bottle of Head and Shoulders while thanking my parents, my fellow nominees, the Academy and Harvey Weinstein for "thinking me worthy of... wow... three Oscars! You shouldn't have." We have all been there. Well, we haven't all been there actually; that's what makes Chinoy such a rock star: she went there, and then she won. The Oscars are to many people the biggest annual event in pop culture, eclipsed infrequently by the Olympics (it's the only time in the year when "curling" attracts a global audience, and that is a feat unto itself), and Pakistan won something! For a country so used to bad news, nay, terrible soul-shattering news, this is a soothing antidote.
Chinoy won for Best Documentary Short, not the most famous but still a respectable category (better than Sound Editing I say), though it really doesn't matter in the least. She has the golden statuette, and has it for work that she made in Pakistan. She has done for aspiring filmmakers what Shazia Sikander did for fine artists earlier this century: she has given hope of success on a scale no one from these parts had previously achieved.
Seeing her up there, hearing a Pakistani accent within feet of the Bridesmaids cast, I had to pinch myself. In a very simple sense, it was a collision of worlds. A merging of the one I inhabit here with the one everyone (everyone but, obviously, Chinoy) only reads about in magazines and gossip rags.
I know I'm not the only one who has stood in front of a bathroom mirror clutching a bottle of Head and Shoulders while thanking my parents, my fellow nominees, the Academy and Harvey Weinstein for "thinking me worthy of... wow... three Oscars! You shouldn't have"
Seeing Chinoy on the red carpet (I caught a glimpse of her behind Angelina Jolie's now infamous right leg), she was described as wearing "local Pakistani couturier Bunto Kazmi" and then changed into a Sana-Safinaz outfit for the after-party. I was admittedly a little taken aback when my Internet stalking revealed that Chinoy had won an Emmy in 2010 for another documentary. Her sudden explosion onto the world stage seems more of the outcome of persistence and hard work than sheer luck or mere timing, but that makes her entry onto the big stage no less meteoric.
Almost everyone I spoke to was genuinely thrilled about the win, and as genuinely happy as I that it was a woman (going sleeveless, well done Bunto, well done...) who won. Her acceptance speech was short, elegant, dignified and uplifting, and even now I find myself getting a little choked-up (a la Sanda Bullock) when I see it repeated over the news or Facebook. There was of course the irritating Lobster Talk: "She only won because it was about acid victims"/"Uff, they only give awards to things that make us look bad"/"It's Oscar Minoriteam", etc.
You don't have to say anything in her defense because, let's face it, girl won an Oscar. Chinoy has a get-out-of-jail/get-into-anywhere-free card. There is no better retort to jealous petty talk than saying, "Two things: One, I thanked the Academy in front of 1.2 billion people; and two, Glenn Close still don't have what I got. Seeya!"
The rest of the telecast was boring in comparison, excepting perhaps the moment when the camera cut to Steven Spielberg's face when Iran won for Best Foreign Language Film (I always thought that category should be reserved for movies made by Guy Ritchie). The shot was very, very funny, partly because of how uncomfortable everyone looked, but also because one could almost hear the ratings-hungry producer shouting "Steve! I need Steve!" the moment Iran's name came up. One of my Israeli friends called me afterwards for a post-mortem and commented on how the Iranians were treating the win as a victory over Israel and how weird that was. It occurred to me that in the strictest sense it was such a win: both countries were nominated for the same award, and Iran won it. Just saying: if this was a Pakistan vs India moment and we won it, there would already be a gigantic faux-gold statue draped in marigolds on our side of Wagah Border.
But the awards were, despite the producers' best efforts, not abut politics. Nor was Chinoy's win. The awards were about filmmaking, the biggest and most important art form of our time. And it serves us well to remember that art has triumphed here, art by a Pakistani, and we with it. Congratulations Ms. Chinoy - and Pakistan - on your Oscar.
Write to thekantawala@gmail.com and follow @fkantawala on twitter
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