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By Dennis Harvey

Laura Linney has said she doesn’t consider herself a celebrity or a star. Indeed, those glamorous terms seem trivializing when applied to someone who’s excelled in so many performance media—it’s like calling Meryl Streep a showgirl.

She’s one of those actors who raises the game of everyone else around her and can make even a misfire seem vividly interesting at least for the moments that she’s onscreen. Though she played a few ingenue-type roles early on, it was immediately apparent she would be in it for the long haul. Few players have projected such intelligence, craft, authority, and range from the start. Linney continues to surprise us, but in a sense that’s unsurprising: For a considerable span of time now, whether encountered at the movies, on TV or the stage, it’s been clear that she can do practically anything.

She was raised in Manhattan by her nurse mother Miriam Perse, but after her parents’ divorce remained close to her father, the prolific late playwright Romulus Linney. That no doubt factored into a youth already steeped in theater, including a teenage stint in summer stock. After graduating from Brown University, then Juilliard, her professional rise was swift. Within two years she’d appeared in new plays by John Patrick Shanley, Donald Marguiles, and John Guare. (Twenty-two years later, in 2004, she’d return to Marguiles’ Sight Unseen on Broadway, this time playing her original character’s mother.)

Small parts in movies soon ensued, as well as a plum role as a cocaine addict in the 1993 telefilm Blind Spot. But most people first became aware of her as wide-eyed but open-hearted San Francisco newbie Mary Ann Singleton in Tales of the City (1993), the first of what would be four miniseries (so far) derived from Armistead Maupin’s beloved stories—the most recent installment’s opening episode being this year’s opening-night curtain raiser for SFFILM.

Tales permitted her to be blonde, charming, funny, and touching, qualities always useful for the ingenue parts that generally fall to “hot” young actresses. But even in the short run of big-budget, big-screen thrillers that then ensued, Linney was never just “The Girl,” but an expedition leader or prosecuting attorney. The flintier edge to her appeal became clearer in 1998’s The Truman Show, where irritation simmered below the sitcom smile of her role-playing wife to Jim Carrey’s unwitting national stooge.

Then at the millennium’s turn came two remarkable performances: The wealthy matron who casually destroys another’s life to hide her own infidelity in The House of Mirth (2000), Terence Davies’ superb Edith Wharton adaptation; and the sister who can’t forgive her errant brother’s faults while expecting a free pass for her own in Kenneth Lonergan’s You Can Count on Me (2000). Linney was paid a purported $10,000 for the latter, and admitted clashing with her perfectionist writer-director. But that humble independent enterprise became a universally acclaimed triumph, winning her the first of three Oscar nominations so far. (Along with numerous other prizes, she has won two Golden Globes and four Emmys to date, as well as four Tony noms.)

Since then, she’s appeared in mainstream Hollywood blockbusters and prestige films, supernatural thrillers, indie ensemble dramas, comedies, and romances (including the Big Kahuna of both, Love Actually, 2003); done animation voice work; and lectured Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. In addition to working repeatedly with directors as estimable as Bill Condon and Clint Eastwood, she’s acted for talents as disparate as James Ivory and Noah Baumbach, You Can Count on Me costar Mark Ruffalo, and Sally Potter (in the forthcoming Molly).

Her equally prodigious television credits have encompassed all those Tales of the City episodes, as well as a guest stint on Frasier (1993-2004), plus of course starring stints on the acclaimed John Adams (2008); gallows-humorous The Big C (2010-2013), which she executive-produced; and current crime drama Ozark (2017- ). Meanwhile, she has somehow found occasional time for Broadway, essaying Arthur Miller, Chekhov, and Christopher Hampton. Most recently, she appeared in a 2017 revival of Lillian Hellman’s The Little Foxes, as ruthless Regina Giddens—being one of precious few actresses one can imagine stepping into the erstwhile shoes of Bette Davis and Tallullah Bankhead without stubbing a toe.

Indeed, it is to Linney’s great credit that she is able to play villainous roles unforgettably, yet without getting herself typecast. The dimensionality she brings to partly or largely unsympathetic characters is also present in the very human fallibility of the figures we empathize with, be they Mary Ann, Sean Penn’s resiliently tough wife in Mystic River (2003), or even the domestic “boss from hell” in The Nanny Diaries (2007)—she can encourage us to laugh at a person’s foibles, yet leave their essential dignity intact.

The meticulous care with which she illuminates complicated dramatic personae is ideally illustrated in Tamara Jenkins’ The Savages (2007), which will be shown as part of her SFFILM tribute on April 11. In its way a barbed companion piece to You Can Count on Me, this more acerbic yet bittersweet sibling saga co-stars the late Philip Seymour Hoffman as brother Jon to her sister Wendy, two Savages approaching middle age, both working (more or less) in theater—though in that, as in most things, they’ve fallen considerably short of their own expectations.

They’re brought together by the news that their father Lenny (Philip Bosco) has lost a partner, is losing his home, and may have dementia. This is even more of a problem than it sounds, because Lenny abandoned his children long ago. Forced to take on care of a parent they were estranged from, the younger Savages react in different ways: Jon with droll but pitiless pragmatism, Wendy with a not-necessarily-helpful mix of guilt and neediness.

She is the kind of deeply flawed character at which Linney so often excels, bringing warmth and humor to a figure whose actions are sometimes indefensible. (Not only does Wendy steal pharmaceuticals from a dead woman and sleep with a married man, she fibs about both a cancer diagnosis and a Guggenheim fellowship.) The performer has inhabited a great diversity of parts, personalities and periods. Yet no matter who she’s playing—whether flaky Wendy, near-saintly Abigail Adams, or even the homophobic housewife who suggests Matthew Shepard got what he deserved in The Laramie Project (2002)—we always grasp exactly where that person is coming from.

Like the very best actors, she seems to define each role from within, providing not just surface strokes but a sense of palpable individual psychology. We may not always like her characters, but we truly understand them…nearly as much as she does. If the difference between an entertainer and an artist lies in the degree (if any) of insight their work provides, there is no question which title best suits Laura Linney.

Dennis Harvey is the longtime Bay Area correspondent for Variety, and has written for numerous other local and national publications.

By Laura Henneman

Films about food and culinary culture are never simply about practical, physical nourishment. At their core they’re about food’s power to bring people together around a table; they’re about ancestry and cuisine as a cultural ambassador; and they’re about artistry and sustainability on a fragile planet.

These three programs, one narrative and two documentaries, address questions of heritage and cultural expectations. They focus their varied lenses on how we come together through food, as families, as friends, as people of shared values. They remind us how the act of preparing food, for ourselves and others, allows us to step into our own as individuals and share our true selves. And importantly, these films aren’t interested in the highfalutin, capital “C” cuisine associated with Michelin stars and months-long waiting lists—in this series, each piece elevates the food of everyday people from all over the world.

Thinking of films about food and food culture might bring to mind the high stakes of Big Night (1996) or the hijinks of Ratatouille (2007); the artful mastery of Jiro Dreams of Sushi (2011) and the urgency of Food, Inc. (2008). These new additions to the recipe book are different in one significant respect: Each highlights the prominence of women as cultural and business leaders in the culinary sphere. But make no mistake, we’re not talking about an old-fashioned, Betty Crocker approach—these women of world cuisine are creative, feisty, and have impeccable taste.

For our first course, whet your appetite for authenticity and activism with Bloodroot, a documentary about the proprietors of that long-standing vegetarian establishment in Bridgeport, Connecticut. In the 1970s, founders Selma Miriam and Noel Furie envisioned a gathering space that would be part bookstore and part restaurant, all based around radical feminism and healthy, nourishing food for everyday folks. For each of these women, Bloodroot was a new chapter in their lives, and a way of claiming their identities. The film parallels how their lives unfolded as young women, how both married and had children before the women’s movement helped them to break free from the limits placed on them by a patriarchal East Coast society. After both women came out, and came together at a NOW rally in 1972, Bloodroot became their passion project, their way of contributing to the cultural shift. The filmmaker grounds contemporary interviews with historical footage and retro ads displaying both the food of the times and how the advertising industry represented women, and playfully interweaves snippets of The Stepford Wives (1975), set in a chillingly similar Connecticut town. The documentary shows the alignment between vegetarianism and feminism, and in Bloodroot’s case, 40 years of making food for the people, for a community, and for a movement.

On to the main course, where we travel south of the border with Nothing Fancy: Diana Kennedy. Kennedy, an Englishwoman and adopted daughter of Mexico, has been called variously the Julia Child of Mexico, the Indiana Jones of food, and perhaps her preferred descriptor: the Mick Jagger of Mexican cooking. Like the women of Bloodroot, Kennedy blazed her own trail through the latter half of the 20th century, and put a worldwide culinary spotlight on the various regional cuisines of Mexico.

The biographical documentary follows the James Beard winner in her 90s, still going strong and living independently in her largely self-sufficient ecological adobe house in the verdant mountains of Michoacán. Fierce and feisty all her life, Kennedy met her future husband Paul on a post-war jaunt in the Caribbean. Paul was a foreign journalist covering a revolution in Haiti, and the pair moved to Mexico City together where Kennedy rapidly fell in love again, this time with a country, a culture, and a cuisine. When Paul was traveling for work, she too would hop on a bus and explore her adopted country, gaining at least one recipe for each bus ride, and soaking up knowledge of regional specialties. And when her husband’s journalist friends came to visit she threw eccentric dinner parties, showing off the techniques she’d learned. One of those guests was New York Times food editor Craig Claiborne, who first encouraged her to write a cookbook, which lead to a tour of the US teaching cooking classes, and later to her own television show. Her reputation as a leading expert on Mexican cuisine grew from there, and continues to this day. Widely recognized as an anthropologist as much as a cook, Kennedy is clearly also a conservationist and environmentalist from the very specific angle of food sustainability.

Director Elizabeth Carroll and her team filmed with Kennedy over more than four years and interviewed chefs and restaurateurs on both sides of the border including Alice Waters, Gabriela Cámara, and Rick Bayless. The finished piece was assembled from over 100 hours of present-day footage and like Bloodroot, mixes in archival clips, both of regional cooking all over Mexico and of Kennedy herself on her cooking shows and in interviews. Still as high energy today as she appears in those clips, Kennedy rarely stops moving and you get the feeling she has little patience for contemplating her legacy, but in rare moments of stillness (and more frequently in her dry sense of humor) she does make mention of her age, and expresses concern about humanity’s understanding and appreciation for quality ingredients and the importance of everyday food.

For the third course in our cinematic and culinary world tour, indulge in comfort food from an entirely different cultural palate with the heartfelt drama Ramen Shop. While the subjects of the first two films in this group touch on questions of legacy and who will carry on traditions, Ramen Shop is wholeheartedly about maintaining the traditions of your family foods, and how each generation introduces new ingredients. Following his palate and his heritage Masato, a young ramen chef from Japan travels to Singapore in search of a greater understanding of his Singaporean mother who died when Masato was a boy, and of his recently deceased father. With the help of Miki, a food blogger who values sharing her cooking skills with her own young son, Masato traces his parents’ footsteps and finds his own style of cooking. Memory and nostalgia mix with delicious details about the history of ramen and its Singaporean cousin Bah kut teh (pork rib soup), showing how these traditionally blue-collar dishes came to be celebrated worldwide. Gentle and sweet, comforting as the dishes it features, Ramen Shop explores the connections between the cultures and cuisines, and how food and family can overcome divides. In a lovely example of life imitating art, chef Keisuke Takeda, founder of Singapore’s biggest ramen chain, created his own version of the soup made in the film to coincide with the film’s Berlin Film Festival premiere.

We recommend booking your post-screening dinner reservations now, because no matter which of these films you see, you will certainly leave the theater hungry.

Laura Henneman works in the Sundance Institute’s Feature Film Program as the Manager of Creative Producing and Artist Support, and is a Senior Programmer for the Academy Award-qualifying Palm Springs International ShortFest.

By David Thomson

Under plangent chords written by Brian Eno, an empty bottle floats into view on dark blue water, coming closer, until we read the pink message—”Arena”—on the glass. No, it’s not a cola elixir or the best bottle of beer you ever threw away—but it’s the opening to one of the greatest television shows ever put together and sustained for 40 years.

As a BBC program it was launched in 1975, led by Humphrey Burton, the then Head of Music and Arts, as a way of extending the traditional attempt to cover the arts on mainstream television. But as time passed—and as leadership was taken up by Leslie Megahey, Alan Yentob, Nigel Finch, and then Anthony Wall—the format has been flexible enough to take on various shapes and sizes, and very different emotional moods. Indeed, the initial air of celebration of art and its participants acquired deeper tones of melancholy and even tragedy, as if to show that creative work for all its glory and popularity could be a hard life to pursue.

Arena does not appear regularly, and it frequently surprises its own admirers in the directions it takes, but in nearly 45 years it has produced more than 600 shows, ranging from a four-part survey of jazz musician and bass player, comedian, motel manager, and orange farmer Slim Gaillard, to a two-part biography, The Private Dirk Bogarde (2001), directed by Adam Low, that gently revealed the closeted homosexual in the great actor and that deserves a key place in his filmography alongside movies like The Servant (1963), Death in Venice (1971), and The Night Porter (1974).

On several occasions, Arena’s ambitious programs have become stand-alone feature films that have won theatrical distribution. These include Mary Harron’s I Shot Andy Warhol (1996), with Lili Taylor winning several prizes as Andy’s would-be assassin Valerie Solanas, Jared Harris as Warhol, and Stephen Dorff as Candy Darling. Then there is Martin Scorsese’s 208-minute documentary on George Harrison, Living in the Material World (2011). But maybe the most remarkable of all is director James Marsh’s somber film essay, Wisconsin Death Trip (1999), inspired by Michael Lesy’s book, published in 1973 and haunted by events in the Black River Falls area from 100 years earlier. The book is a unique marriage of text and archival still photographs. The movie followed that model but acted out several voices from the book, and included an austere but poetic narration by Ian Holm. It also had an original score composed by DJ Shadow and John Cale.

The television show had its roots in theater and music, but it quickly reached out to literature and cinema. Over the years, Arena would deliver classic portraits of Luis Buñuel, Orson Welles, and Ingmar Bergman, all of which were notable for searching interviews that lasted several hours before being shaped and edited for the show.

The range is so open, and so dedicated to a personal vision in its every work, that Arena deserves to be recognized as an essential element in British culture, along with the BBC itself, Penguin Books, the several enterprises gathered on the South Bank in London, and the unique British respect that can take things all the more seriously through a mixture of irony, fond challenge, and reverent mockery. There’s no need for all arts commentary to be solemn, academically high-minded, or elitist. The imagination may be our most democratic function, and Arena has always preferred to bypass those institutions and doctrines that feel they control art.

So Arena has delivered groundbreaking studies on punk, on the relationship between Princess Diana and the media, on the subversive TV program Spitting Image (1984-2014), and on such diverse iconic figures as Amy Winehouse, Sister Wendy, Harold Pinter, Jonathan Miller, V.S. Naipaul, and Edna Everidge. And don’t forget the program that explored the bonds between Charles Dickens and cinema.

But Arena has adored America, too, even if it sometimes finds our cultural landscape hard to credit as anything other than a surreal movie. It is remarkable that it took a British team to deliver Wisconsin Death Trip, and it’s just as important that Arena has also covered Sonny Rollins, New York’s Chelsea Hotel, Dave Brubeck, Hedy Lamarr, Phil Spector, The New York Review of Books, and The Burger and the King: The Life & Cuisine of Elvis Presley (another James Marsh film).

The versatility of the format, the apparent eccentricity in some choices, and the consistent depth of attention are not easily balanced. In its heyday, the BBC turned wayward impulses into huge hits (like Monty Python’s Flying Circus), but that has raised problems in a schedule more and more drawn to system and repetition. The BBC once so open and impulsive has been subjected to cost analyses and business plans that can have a chilling effect. That leaves the continued presence of Arena all the more remarkable. It is a tribute to Anthony Wall who has stayed in charge of the show since 1985, and who has some bruises and unhealed wounds from that experience. Not everyone at the BBC has admired the castaway bottle. It would require unreasonable optimism about British bureaucracy to feel confident that Arena’s messages will keep floating into our thoughts. In so many ways, the show has now earned the right to deliver a program about itself (it would require many parts) that presents both the achievement and the dismay of Anthony Wall, and the team he has worked with.

More recently, the program created Arena Hotel, a rich website archive of its many episodes and invaluable background materials that may not have reached the screen, which is as absorbing as the sketchbooks of a painter or the early drafts by a novelist. No wonder Werner Herzog once remarked that Arena was “an oasis in the sea of insanity that is television.”

In giving the Mel Novikoff award this year to Arena, the Festival honors its small army of men and women, an attitude that maintained independent ideals and—most important of all—the notion that television might be a medium through which we the people stay attached to the human imagination in an age when technology, materialism, and unconsidered or unmediated “progress” are owning and controlling our airwaves.

David Thomson is a film historian and critic. He the author of the oft-revised The New Biographical Dictionary of Film and many other books, including his most recent work, Sleeping with Strangers: How the Movies Shaped Desire (2019).

By Michelle Materre

How to begin to describe the career of Madeline Anderson? At the marvelous age of 91 years young and 4 feet 8 inches tall, Madeline continues to be a force to be reckoned with.

When Madeline Anderson began making films in the 1950s it was only white men making films. However, this trailblazing African-American woman had known since high school that she wanted to be a filmmaker. As an avid filmgoer throughout her childhood in her hometown of Lancaster, Pennsylvania, she very early on grew weary of seeing her people depicted only as “savages” in Tarzan movies or “lazy and shiftless” servants in other Hollywood films. She wanted to show another side of Black history, and make films about the achievements of contemporary Black Americans. In her first film as a director, Integration Report 1 in 1960 –which screens as part of the POV tribute along with I Am Somebody – Ms. Anderson documented events that led up to the March on Washington in 1963, making her one of the first Black women to make a documentary film. She then went on to produce I Am Somebody in 1969, the first half-hour documentary directed by an African-American to be broadcast on television, as a union cardholding member, female director and editor, wife, and mother of four. She went on to become the first female supervising editor of the film department for Children’s Television Workshop (producers of Sesame Street) on public television and executive produced the educational series for children, Infinity Factory (1977-).

When Lincoln Center screened Madeline’s work as part of the “Tell It Like It Is: Black Independents in New York 1968-1986” in February of 2015, a series I co-programmed with Jake Perlin, then programmer at large at Film Society of Lincoln Center, it created a resurgence of interest in her work by two or three new generations of filmmakers, film scholars, and film enthusiasts. During the course of this two-week series, we screened three of her films: Integration Report 1, Malcolm X (1969), and I Am Somebody. Malcolm X was originally broadcast as part of the television public affairs series, Black Journal (1969-) produced by the renowned documentarian, William Greaves. Madeline’s work was the first work directed by a Black woman to air on this program for public television. And, as they say, the rest was history.

During an interview I did with Madeline on my radio program in February 2015, I asked her about what role the advent of television played in the 1960s in terms of defining careers. Madeline’s response was, “When I started out in the film industry, there were no film schools. The way you learned was by becoming someone’s assistant. That wasn’t easy for us, because if you weren’t a son or related to someone in the industry, no one would hire you. I was fortunate enough to meet Ricky Leacock while I was at NYU. He and his wife were such supporters of mine and I took advantage of every opportunity that came along… When you’re in the industry and you start having a track record, that’s how you get jobs. It was very difficult for Black people to gain a track record because we didn’t know who was in the union, and who were our ‘friends.’ Luckily, I had Ricky, D.A. Pennebaker, and Shirley Clarke in my corner and I worked in that space for two years, so people began to know about me. When Dr. King was assassinated, that was the recognition of the role of the media in controlling black people by broadcasting ‘Black product,’ such as Black Journal. When funding was discontinued, our popularity as filmmakers was lost because we weren’t (considered) a moneymaking entity. And the aesthetics we brought didn’t continue because they aren’t considered ‘moneymaking,’ even though we saved the Hollywood industry in the 1970s with the Blaxploitation era.”

When I asked Madeline about how she came to make I Am Somebody, here’s what she had to say:

“When I first heard about the women going on strike in Charleston [African-American hospital workers asking for increased wages and union recognition), I was working on Black Journalwith Bill Greaves. I had also heard that Bill was leaving the program, so I wanted to be at the forefront of a story about women in the struggle for change, and started doing the research on the story. I went to the networks to try to raise money, but they weren’t interested because they said there was no audience for this film. Then I went to the unions. I went to Local 1199, because they had a record of making films, and they were very enthusiastic about making this film, and gave me carte blanche. It was the first time in all my years of filmmaking that I had enough money and enough time, almost, to get a film made from the beginning. Because two weeks after finishing the film, I had my fourth child. And the story of these women was my story.”

In this age of the #MeToo movement, Black Lives Matter, and other campaigns for gender and racial equity in the workplace, it is essential to be knowledgeable of the lived experiences of these pioneers who came before, such as Madeline Anderson. She had the support of some generous individuals, but mostly had to make her own way through dangerous territory during a tumultuous time in this country’s history. And yet, she did it, along with many other courageous men and women of color whom we know little about.

Michelle Materre is an Associate Professor of Media Studies and Film at The New School and the curator and founder of the Creatively Speaking Film Series.