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The Erasure of a Scholar's LegacyWhen Donald Trump returned to office in January last year, one of his first acts was to sign an executive order intended to cut federal funding for any school teaching what the administration defined as "critical race theory." A raft of other orders mandated the termination of DEI (diversity, equity and inclusion) personnel, offices and training across the federal government. Federal agencies began flagging hundreds of words to avoid or eliminate, including "intersectional" and "intersectionality." All of which has amounted to 40 years of Kimberlé Crenshaw's work being literally and deliberately erased.The Architect of IntersectionalityFor decades, the 66-year-old legal scholar has been naming things that powerful people would prefer remain unnamed. In 1989, she coined the term intersectionality to describe the way race and gender overlap to shape lived experience, often in ways the law fails to recognize. Around the same time, she was one of a group of African American scholars who created the framework that came to be known as "critical race theory," which sought to examine how racism is embedded in legal systems rather than simply enacted through individual prejudice. Now, Crenshaw's ideas are being contested like never before.The Political Weaponization of Academic Concepts"Unfortunately, I did see this coming," she tells me over a video call from the California offices of the African American Policy Forum, the thinktank she co-founded. We are calling to discuss Crenshaw's new memoir, Backtalker, but the conversation soon shifts. "The fact that they are targeting this … it is because they understand the power of these ideas, the power of this history." Behind her, posters reading "History repeats when we forget" and "The freedom to learn is the freedom to live" hang alongside shelves of critical race theory texts and Black history books the likes of which have, in some states, become politically radioactive.The Cultural War Over "Woke" IdeologyWhat makes the intensity of this backlash striking is how recently Crenshaw's work entered mainstream public consciousness. Until a few years ago, ideas such as intersectionality and critical race theory remained largely within the domain of legal scholarship, academic debate and activist vernacular. It wasn't until 2020, when a loose coalition of conservative activists, media figures and politicians began elevating them as political flashpoints, that they were thrust into the centre of the culture wars. In the ensuing five years, this snowballed into all-out war against "woke," with critical race theory as its ultimate bogeyman. It became a byword for liberal overreach, a catch-all for everything that was wrong with the US in the eyes of the conservative right.The Fascist Narrative and American Democracy"Trump jumped on a bandwagon started by a few rightwing propagandists, claiming that intersectionality and critical race theory were anti-white, anti-male and anti-American," she says. "Fox News amplified this, and within weeks, these ideas were mentioned more than they had been in the previous four decades."Crenshaw, true to form, is not shy about naming what she considers to be the problem. "One of the keys of fascism is control of the nation's narrative," she says. "That, alongside creating a group of people that are legitimate targets of exclusion – an us and them – allows for the autocrat to be seen as the embodiment of the essential nation. And in the United States, we come prefabricated for that dimension of fascism to set into our politics."Why is it that so many white Americans are willing to continue to vote for a president that is demolishing democracy, so long as he's willing to affirm them effectively as true Americans?" she continues. "Because of the idea that those over there are different from us. They don't really belong. That is the way fascism works."From Childhood Inequality to Intellectual FrameworkIt is clearly in Crenshaw's DNA to confront injustice, as is evidenced in Backtalker, which chronicles her journey from witnessing inequality as a child to challenging entrenched power structures in law, academia and politics. "Being a backtalker is like being lactose intolerant," she writes. "There is BS that I cannot digest. To accept anything close to second-class status as the price of belonging sickens me."Born in Ohio in 1959, on the verge of the civil rights movement, Crenshaw grew up at a time of expanding yet restricted possibilities. She watched that tension unfolding in real time, in the speeches of Malcolm X and Martin Luther King Jr on television, and in discussions around the kitchen table, where her parents, dedicated anti-racist activists, treated politics as a daily practice. "As a Black child, I had early inklings that differences would matter in my life, even if I couldn't name them," she says.The Making of an Intersectional ConsciousnessOne such inkling came when her family moved to the predominantly white suburb of Canton, Ohio. "When we arrived, there were children playing everywhere," she remembers. "I was excited." But almost overnight, the children vanished. Neighbours treated the new family as intruders and shouted slurs when they walked by; an estate agent knocked on their door urging a quick sale.Perhaps the most formative incident came when she was five years old, and was the only girl in her all-white class who was not given the opportunity to play the princess, Thorn Rosa, in a school performance. "Thorn Rosa marks the stirring of my nascent awareness that my colour and my girlness were linked," she writes."You push that doubt down until something happens that forces it open," she tells me. "You realize that how others see you will shape your experiences. And that realization is traumatic."The Trauma of Loss and the Birth of ActivismWhat mattered, she says, was that those moments were not dismissed. "I credit my parents for taking them seriously," she says. "They refused to minimize what I experienced, even as a young child. That affirmation was freeing, it told me my feelings were grounded in reality and gave me permission to understand them."It was tragedy that would, in many ways, become the making of the young Crenshaw. She was eight years old when Martin Luther King Jr was assassinated in 1968 – a before-and-after moment in her life. The following day, young Black activists in Canton directed schoolchildren to the local church for a hastily organized memorial service. Crowded into pews, everyone was silent when the activists asked if anyone had anything to say about Dr. King. No one moved. It was Crenshaw who broke the silence, exhorting the crowd not to let his death be the end of the freedom struggle. "We pick up where he left off," she recalls saying. "We continue to walk in his footsteps. They can't kill his dream for us – not if we won't let them."Further devastation followed. A year later, her father, an apparently healthy 34-year-old, died suddenly, leaving the family reeling. Not long after, her older brother Mantel was shot and killed while at university. The circumstances were never fully explained, and justice never came. She writes of that period with unflinching candor: "Happiness was dead." These losses left an indelible mark, sharpening her awareness of the unevenness of justice in a world already structured by racial and social inequities.The Complexity of Solidarity and the Limits of "We"Crenshaw arrived at Cornell University in 1978, to a campus shaped by the afterlives of civil rights struggle and Black student organizing. It was there that she entered into a relationship with a fellow student that became physically abusive. In one incident, he beat her and tried to throw her from the window of her 10th-floor dorm room."We were eye-to-eye when he threw the first punch," she writes in Backtalker. "Pressed out of denial, I woke to the fact that he was going to beat the daylights out of me."What followed unsettled her understanding of community more profoundly than the violence itself. Rather than rallying around her, many of her peers – fellow Black students and friends – closed ranks around him. To involve authorities, they told her, would be to expose a Black man to a system already predisposed against him. The implication was that her suffering as a woman should be subordinated to a broader racial solidarity."The way that sexual violence against Black women has long been justified – framing us as unlikely ever to say no to any sexual encounter – you can know this historically, but then when you experience it interpersonally, you have to grapple with the fact that more people in your own community will come to the defense of your abuser than you," she says. "It really presses the question of 'what is solidarity supposed to look like?' she continues. "What does it mean to defend the 'we', when that 'we' often excludes me?"The Birth of Intersectionality in Legal TheoryCrenshaw returns to that question – of the instability of "we"– again and again. From arriving at Harvard Law School and being called the N-word on her first day, to being directed to enter the university's exclusive Fly Club through the back door because she was a woman – the Black male friends she was with, rather than challenge the slight, urged her not to make a scene. What she would later call "asymmetrical solidarities" revealed themselves in practice: loyalty expected but not returned. "I cannot bring myself to ride or die for a politics that won't ride or die for me," she writes of the incident.In legal terms, the problem came into focus when Crenshaw came across a 1976 case in which an African American woman was denied the ability to bring a discrimination claim against her employer on the grounds that the law could recognize race or gender, but not both at once. Her experience – specifically of being discriminated against as a Black woman – fell through the cracks and the case was thrown out of court. In 1989, Crenshaw identified this form of compound discrimination and gave it a name: intersectionality. Around the same time, she was part of a group of scholars developing what would become critical race theory, a broader attempt to understand how racism is a structural part of the legal system.The Promise and Limits of Political RepresentationIt is a lesson that would resurface, years later, in a very different arena. When Barack Obama was elected president in 2008, the language of "we" returned with renewed force – this time, as a promise. For many, Obama's election felt like a rupture with the past. But for Crenshaw, it quickly raised a familiar question."I didn't think it would happen in my lifetime," she says, of that initial hope after Obama's victory. "It felt like a miracle. My mother and I celebrated together on the phone – I was dancing on a table at Stanford and she was doing the same in her retirement facility. For her especially, it was a dream come true."But symbolism, Crenshaw suggests, has limits, particularly when it is used as a substitute for structural change. She found his reticence to address racial injustice head-on frustrating. Very quickly, the terms of Obama's political viability became clear."He had been framed as post-racial, beyond these issues," she says. "And that framing became a constraint on what he could say and how directly he could address racial injustice."Even when Obama did address racial inequality more explicitly in his second term – most notably after the killing of 17-year-old Trayvon Martin in 2012 – the focus, she felt, remained narrow, failing to address the systemic nature of the problem.The Future of Racial Justice in AmericaAs Crenshaw reflects on her life's work and the current political climate, she remains committed to the struggle for racial justice, even as her ideas face unprecedented opposition. "If speaking out means being at odds with people I love, well, so be it," she writes. "I still love them. I hope they still love me."Looking ahead, Crenshaw sees both challenges and opportunities in the fight for racial justice. The backlash against critical race theory and intersectionality, she argues, is a sign of the power these ideas hold to transform American society. "There's a long history in this country of using the threat of violence to keep people under heel," she observes. "But the resistance has always been there too, and it's getting stronger."As America continues to grapple with its racial legacy, Crenshaw's work – and the concept of intersectionality she pioneered – offers a framework for understanding the complex ways race, gender, and other identities intersect to shape experiences of discrimination and privilege. Whether this framework will survive the current political assault remains to be seen, but Crenshaw's decades of scholarship and activism have already left an indelible mark on American discourse and law.

The 50‑Year Countdown to Southampton’s Historic FA Cup FinalSouthampton are set to face Premier League leaders Manchester City in the FA Cup semi‑final, a match that arrives just days before the 50th anniversary of their only cup triumph in 1976.Celebrations and Commemorations Tied to the 1976 TriumphFans and former players will mark the milestone with a series of events, including a “76 Experience” dinner, open‑top bus parade and screenings of the original final.Anniversary dinner on Monday, followed by two nights of fan‑focused activities.Restored open‑top bus that carried the 1976 heroes to a crowd of 175,000 will run again.Former Saints such as Nick Holmes (USA) and eight members of the 1976 XI, now aged 71‑82, are expected to attend.Betting Odds and Financial Stakes Surrounding the Semi‑FinalBookmakers have priced Southampton as underdogs, with odds ranging from 9‑1 to 12‑1 for a win, compared with 5‑1 on the day of the 1976 final.The semi‑final also promises significant gate revenue for a club currently fourth in the Championship, though exact figures have not been disclosed.Why the 1976 Victory Still Shapes Southampton’s IdentityThe 1976 win remains a cultural touchstone for the city. As former player Tim Manns notes, “Everything about it was magical,” and the story continues to inspire new generations, evident in the commemorative kit worn each round this season.The triumph elevated Southampton’s national profile despite being a second‑division side.It forged a lasting bond among supporters, described by Maidstone manager George Elokobi as “binds us for life.”Local legends like Paul Gilchrist and David Peach still recount the match’s moments, reinforcing its mythic status.Looking Ahead: What the Semi‑Final Means for Saints’ Future AspirationsIf Southampton can replicate the giant‑killing spirit, a final appearance could accelerate their push for promotion back to the Premier League. Success would also boost commercial opportunities tied to the anniversary celebrations.Even if the odds are against them, the club’s narrative suggests that the “magic” of ’76 may yet influence the outcome of Saturday’s clash.

Japan’s cabinet announced on 2026‑04‑15 that the historic prohibition on exporting lethal weapons has been removed, allowing the sale of fighter jets, missiles and warships to a list of allied countries. The move, championed by Prime Minister Sanae Takaichi, coincides with a $7 bn warship contract with Australia and heightened regional security tensions.Key DevelopmentsBan on lethal weapons exports, in place since 1967/1976, is officially lifted.Exports will now include fighter jets, missiles and warships, subject to UN Charter compliance.At least 17 countries – including Australia, New Zealand, the Philippines and Indonesia – are eligible, with potential expansion.Japan will still bar sales to active conflict zones, except under “special circumstances”.The policy shift follows a $7 bn contract for Mitsubishi Heavy Industries to build 11 warships for the Australian navy.Data & Market ImpactPrevious export rules limited Japan to non‑lethal equipment such as surveillance drones and mine‑sweeping gear.The new regime could unlock a defense market worth several billions of dollars annually, given Japan’s advanced aerospace and shipbuilding sectors.With 17 initial buyers, even a modest average order of $500 m per country would generate a $8.5 bn revenue boost for Japanese defense firms.Why This MattersThe decision reshapes Japan’s security architecture, providing a domestic source of high‑tech weaponry for allies and reducing reliance on U.S. arms transfers. It also escalates diplomatic friction with China, which has condemned the move as “reckless militarisation”. For regional economies, the policy opens new export opportunities for Japanese manufacturers while prompting neighboring states to reassess their own defense procurement strategies.Expert InsightAnalysts view the policy change as a pragmatic response to an “increasingly severe security environment” in the Indo‑Pacific. By aligning export rules with the UN Charter, Japan seeks to legitimize its sales while avoiding outright support for ongoing conflicts. The timing—immediately after a $7 bn warship deal—suggests a coordinated effort to cement Japan’s role as a reliable security partner for Australia and other Quad‑plus nations. However, the move risks domestic backlash, especially given Prime Minister Takaichi’s recent offering to the controversial Yasukuni Shrine, which inflames historical sensitivities in China and South Korea.What Happens NextJapan is likely to negotiate bilateral agreements expanding the eligible‑country list, potentially adding Southeast Asian partners.U.S. and Australian defense planners may accelerate joint projects that leverage Japanese platforms.China could increase its own arms sales to counterbalance Japan’s growing influence, heightening regional arms competition.Domestic opposition may pressure the government to tighten “special circumstance” exemptions, shaping the practical scope of the new export regime.

Beirut, Lebanon – In late March, authorities abandoned a proposed shelter for war‑displaced residents in the Karantina neighbourhood after a wave of public protest.Opponents, including local politicians and community activists, cited practical concerns such as traffic congestion near the port and health risks. However, the core of the backlash was sectarian: many Christian residents invoked demographic fears, chanting slogans reminiscent of the 1975‑1990 Lebanese Civil War to block housing for the predominantly Shia‑Muslim displaced population.The controversy resurfaced painful memories of the 1976 Karantina massacre, when right‑wing Phalangist forces expelled and killed thousands of Muslims. Historian Diala Lteif, researching the district’s history, estimates the death toll at 1,000‑3,000. She warned that the current rhetoric mirrors the “foundational logic” of that tragedy – a drive to segregate neighbourhoods.Israel’s intensified campaign against Lebanon has already forced the displacement of approximately 1.2 million people. The war, reignited on March 2 after Hezbollah’s retaliatory rocket fire, has seen Israeli troops and air strikes devastate southern towns and parts of Beirut, heightening fears that hosting displaced families could draw further attacks.Amid these tensions, a 10‑day ceasefire is slated to begin, yet many Lebanese worry the violence could spiral into renewed communal conflict or even a civil war.Experts note that the association of displaced Shia communities with Hezbollah fuels anxiety. Lara Deeb, an anthropologist at Scripps College, explained that Lebanon’s sectarian political system blurs the line between a religious group and a political party, amplifying mistrust across the board.While the cancelled site remains unused, another displacement centre operated by the Lebanese charity Offre Joie continues to function in Karantina. It currently shelters about 1,000 displaced families from the south, the Bekaa Valley, and Beirut’s southern suburbs.Volunteer Marie Daou described the centre’s conditions as comparatively decent, with reliable hot water and regular meals. Security forces monitor the residents’ identities, and no occupants have left despite more than 40 days of conflict.One resident, 30‑year‑old Nadine, fled her home in Burj al‑Barajneh on March 2. She now lives with five siblings at the centre, saying, “For now, we’re staying here. You can’t go back because there is danger, but nowhere is safe. We will endure.”The episode highlights how historic sectarian wounds intersect with today’s geopolitical crisis, shaping public policy and community responses in a Lebanon already strained by war and displacement.

The National Gallery of Art's latest exhibition, 'Dear America: Artists Explore the American Experience', is a thought-provoking collection of over 100 works by 95 artists. This 'open letter to the nation' offers a multifaceted exploration of the American experience, delving into themes of land, community, and freedom.Upon entering the exhibition, visitors are immediately struck by the unconventional representations of iconic American symbols. The Statue of Liberty, for instance, is reimagined through the lens of South African photographer Zanele Muholi and a geometric screenprint by Roy Lichtenstein.The exhibition's curatorial approach is to create 'provocative conversations across centuries, disciplines and demographics.' E Carmen Ramos, the gallery's chief curatorial and conservation officer, notes that the show was 'years in the making' and showcases an 'embarrassment of riches' from the gallery's permanent collection of over 160,000 works.Structured around three core themes – land, community, and freedom – the exhibition presents a diverse array of works. These include Thomas Moran's idyllic watercolours of the American West juxtaposed with Thomas Hart Johnson's photographs of a landscape ravaged by coal mining and railroads. The exhibition also features poignant pieces such as Carrie Mae Weems's haunting silhouette and Gordon Parks's indelible 'American Gothic.'The show's second section, 'Community,' features Richard Avedon's massive 1976 commission 'The Family,' which comprises 69 stark, uniform portraits of the bicentennial era's political, media, and corporate elite. This is contrasted with John Wilson's tender sketches of his teenage children and their friends.The final act of the exhibition turns its lens to 'Freedom,' showcasing historical portraits of figures such as Frederick Douglass, Sojourner Truth, and George Washington, alongside powerful works by Kara Walker, Martha Rosler, and Faith Ringgold. As visitors exit, they are met with Robert Indiana's boldly coloured screenprint 'Liberty '76,' created for the 1976 bicentennial.Ramos reflects on the exhibition's significance, stating that it 'explores how artists in the United States have explored the American experience across different moments in time.' The exhibition will be on view in the National Gallery's West Building until 20 September.

Judith Rapoport, a leading child psychiatrist, passed away at 92, leaving a legacy defined by her groundbreaking work on obsessive‑compulsive disorder (OCD). Her 1989 book, The Boy Who Couldn’t Stop Washing, translated into more than twenty languages, presented complex research in a clear, jargon‑free style that resonated with a broad audience. OCD is characterized by compulsive rituals—re‑tying shoelaces, repeatedly checking switches, or incessant hand‑washing—that can dominate a person’s daily life. Before Rapoport’s book, many sufferers concealed their symptoms out of shame, unaware that they were not alone. Rapoport’s research demonstrated that OCD has a neurological foundation and may affect up to 2% of the population, challenging prevailing beliefs that it stemmed from overly strict parenting. She proved that the disorder can be hereditary and responsive to medication. In a pivotal 1989 double‑blind trial, she showed that the antidepressant clomipramine significantly reduced OCD symptoms, prompting the U.S. Food and Drug Administration to approve its use for the condition—a landmark moment in psychiatric treatment. Patients and colleagues credit her work with reducing stigma. "Reading Rapoport’s book washed away my shame," recalled Charles Gentz, who lives with OCD, while Professor Gabrielle Shapiro of the Icahn School of Medicine noted that the book “reduced the stigma for these people.” Rapoport herself reflected, “If my work alleviated just part of their pain, then it was not wasted time.” Born in New York City to a schoolteacher mother and a businessman father, she grew up with a literary lineage—her grandfather translated Ibsen into Yiddish. She excelled academically, graduating magna cum laude from Swarthmore College in 1955** and earning her medical degree from Harvard Medical School in 1959, where she met her husband, Stanley Rapoport. After early positions at Mount Sinai and the Massachusetts Mental Health Center, she and her husband secured fellowships in Sweden, conducting research at Uppsala University and the Karolinska Institute on women seeking abortions abroad. Returning to the United States, Rapoport joined the National Institute of Mental Health (NIMH) in 1976. There she led the institute’s child psychiatry branch from 1984, steering American psychiatry away from Freudian models toward a **biology‑focused** approach. Beyond OCD, she made significant contributions to the understanding of attention‑deficit hyperactivity disorder (ADHD) and childhood schizophrenia. Her 1978 study revealed that amphetamine improved concentration in both hyperactive and control children, contradicting the notion that stimulants only calm hyperactivity. Using MRI, she showed that childhood schizophrenia is progressive, involving loss of brain matter—a finding that shifted the focus from parenting to neurobiology. Rapoport’s expertise reached mainstream audiences through appearances on shows hosted by Oprah Winfrey and Larry King, further amplifying her message. By the time she retired in 2017, she had authored over 300 scientific papers, several books, and earned prestigious honors, including fellowship in the Institute of Medicine (1991) and the American Academy of Arts and Sciences (2000). Colleague Gabrielle Shapiro described her as “a pioneer who turned child psychiatry into a modern, evidence‑based discipline.” Outside the laboratory, she enjoyed music, theatre, hiking, and gardening. She is survived by her husband, two sons, and four grandsons.

The 2026 football calendar has been unusually fragmented, with international fixtures squeezed into March for World Cup qualifying play‑offs, leaving only a handful of matches over the weekend. This odd scheduling created a three‑week lull in the domestic title race, a pause that proved advantageous for cup competitions.Manchester City’s Carabao Cup victory offered a tactical showcase for Pep Guardiola, reminding fans that silverware cannot be taken for granted after last season’s disappointment. The win set the stage for a weekend of high‑stakes FA Cup action.In the FA Cup quarter‑finals, Southampton defeated Arsenal in a match steeped in nostalgia, as the hosts wore a pale yellow‑blue kit echoing their 1976 triumph. The result highlighted the competition’s ability to generate drama beyond league narratives.One of the most compelling stories came from Ross Stewart, Sunderland’s former striker now with Southampton. After a career hampered by a ruptured Achilles in an FA Cup tie three years earlier, Stewart returned to the competition and scored against Arsenal, the very side that had previously exposed his hamstring woes. At 29, his goal not only propelled Southampton forward but also secured him a place in the upcoming FA Cup semi‑final at Wembley.The weekend also featured Manchester City’s dominant display against Liverpool, intensifying speculation over Liverpool manager Arne Slot’s future, and a gritty penalty shoot‑out win for West Ham over Leeds, underscoring the unpredictable nature of knockout football.For Arsenal, the loss raises serious concerns. The Gunners entered the break on a 14‑match unbeaten league run, only to suffer consecutive defeats and display uncharacteristic nervousness after half‑time against City. The return of goalkeeper David Raya, whose distribution could alleviate Arsenal’s pressing issues, may help, but the team’s injury list and erratic passing remain problematic.Overall, the weekend proved that the FA Cup remains a vital pillar of English football, capable of elevating unsung players like Stewart and delivering moments that resonate far beyond the Premier League title chase.

The prospect of a historic quadruple for Arsenal has evaporated. After a Carabao Cup final loss and a humbling defeat to second‑tier Southampton, the Gunners now face only two competitions.In a dramatic FA Cup quarter‑final, a late goal by Shea Charles clinched a 2‑1 win for the Saints, who have been reshaped by manager Tonda Eckert from relegation candidates into promotion frontrunners within six months.Southampton opened the scoring eleven minutes before halftime when Ross Stewart capitalised on a defensive lapse, slipping a low finish past Arsenal keeper Kepa Arrizabalaga. The lead was restored shortly after when substitute Viktor Gyökeres headed home, leveling the match.However, the decisive moment arrived in the 84th minute. After a swift build‑up involving Tom Fellows, Charles received the ball inside the box and calmly placed it past the keeper, sending the Saints into the FA Cup semi‑finals at the end of the month.The victory marks only the fifth occasion this season that a team has beaten the Premier League leaders, underscoring Southampton’s resurgence. The club also honoured its 50‑year FA Cup triumph with a special yellow‑and‑blue kit, recalling Bobby Stokes' winning goal in 1976.For Arsenal, the defeat compounds recent setbacks. Manager Mikel Arteta now has less than 48 hours before the team departs for Lisbon to face Sporting CP in the Champions League quarter‑final first leg, followed by a crucial Premier League clash at Manchester City.Despite the loss, Arsenal showed flashes of life, with Gyökeres equalising and a flurry of chances in stoppage time, but Southampton’s disciplined defence and Charles’ composure proved decisive.

Mary Beth Hurt died on 28 March 2026 at the age of 79, closing a four‑decade career that blended intellectual cinema with acclaimed stage work. Born in Marshalltown, Iowa, she entered the film world with Woody Allen’s experimental drama Interiors (1978), earning a BAFTA nomination for Best Newcomer alongside Christopher Reeve.Although Interiors was a modest critical success, it proved financially profitable, grossing $10 million on a $3 million budget. Hurt’s portrayal of the directionless Joey marked the start of a career defined by thoughtful, understated performances.Her next high‑profile role came as Helen Holm, the college‑professor wife of Robin Williams’s titular character in The World According to Garp (1982). The film’s daring tonal shifts – including a shocking car‑crash scene – earned Oscar nominations for John Lithgow and Glenn Close, while giving Hurt a rare chance to play a fully sexual woman.Early setbacks included losing the lead in Joan Micklin Silver’s Head Over Heels (1979) to Jamie Lee Curtis and a troubled turn in the melodrama A Change of Seasons (1980), which suffered from production turmoil and poor box‑office returns.On stage, Hurt distinguished herself with three Tony nominations: for Pinero’s Trelawny of the ‘Wells’ (1976) opposite a debuting Meryl Streep, for a 1982 revival of Beth Henley’s Crimes of the Heart, and for Michael Frayn’s Benefactors (1986). She debuted on Broadway in 1974’s revival of William Congreve’s Love For Love opposite Glenn Close.Her personal life intersected with her professional world. She married fellow actor William Hurt in 1971, divorcing in December 1982, and later wed director Paul Schrader in August 1983. Collaborations with Schrader included Light Sleeper (1992), Affliction (1997) and The Walker (2007).Later film work featured a supporting turn in Karen Moncrieff’s feminist thriller The Dead Girl (2006), which earned her an Independent Spirit Award nomination, and a cameo in Martin Scorsese’s The Age of Innocence (1993). Her final screen appearance was in the small‑town drama Change in the Air (2018), filmed before a diagnosis of Alzheimer’s disease.Reflecting on her craft, Hurt once said, "I never felt very beautiful or incredibly smart or witty, so I was always looking for something about the role that intrigued me… more fascinating than the gold‑medal moments."She is survived by husband Paul Schrader and their two children, Molly and Sam.