It Had To Be Her: The Irreplaceable Diane Keaton

Photo: Getty Images

I’m looking at social media and stewing a little bit, because Diane Keaton was a hell of a lot more than “Lah-dee-dah.”

Those three syllables, of course, are what her character Annie Hall says rather too frequently in her and Woody Allen’s Oscar-winning 1977 film. “Lah-dee-dah” is Annie’s “whatever,” or her “so it goes,” or her “I’m at a loss.” And admittedly not a lot of other actors could make the reprise as endearing as Keaton did. But with her death today, at the age of 79, we’ve lost not just one of the great comedic actresses, but one of the great actresses, period. 

Keaton’s birth name was Hall, and while her appearance and demeanor frequently lent her a wholesome cornfed Midwestern vibe, Diane Hall was born in Los Angeles. Her folks weren’t in show business but her mom had won a homemaker’s beauty pageant. She caught the acting bug in high school and trekked to New York. There, she joined the ensemble of the infamous “hippie” musical Hair, and declined to disrobe for its finale, as much of the cast customarily did. She knew her own mind from the start. Her path first crossed with Allen’s not in film but on stage, in Allen’s play Play It Again, Sam, in which Allen’s schlemiel character Allan successfully seduces Keaton’s Linda, his best friend’s wife.  The production was directed by Herbert Ross, who also helmed the 1972 film version. 

The legend of Allen and Keaton’s romantic partnership is far more sweeping than what it was in reality. Although they remained lifelong friends — Keaton remained a staunch ally of Allen’s even as he was beset by accusations of child molestation — their time as a couple was pretty much finished as Allen’s directorial career was taking off and Keaton co-starred in what came to be known as his “earlier, funnier movies.” In both the sci-fi spoof Sleeper and the period pastiche Love and Death, Keaton played Allen’s variations of contemporary women — strong, arguably overeducated, vulnerable, neurotic in ways that counterpointed the invariably more extreme neuroticism of Allen’s characters. And was riotously funny the whole while.

Photo: Everett Collection

 At the same time she demonstrated devastating dramatic chops as Kay, Michael Corleone’s wife in Coppola’s 1972 The Godfather. In an early scene, Michael, back from Army service and still in uniform, serves as a docent to Keaton’s cheerful uber-WASP Kay, telling the “true story” of Corleone enforcer Luca Brasi, as if daring her to get further involved with him. She does, and we shudder at the film’s last scene when Michael loses a portion of his soul by lying to Kay and then closes a door on her. She was let down somewhat by The Godfather Part II, arguably bringing too much of a contemporary feel to her late ‘50s character. But as with every other performance she gave, she had a complete commitment to where she took that character. The movies introduced her to Al Pacino, with whom she had a fervent decades-long affair; Pacino frequently credits Keaton for persistent and sometimes ass-kicking career advice. 

And then there’s Annie Hall. Allen himself has long pushed back at the claims of overconfident critics and cineastes that the film is a nakedly autobiographical account of his real-life relationship with Keaton. And that pushback is worth taking seriously. As winsome and charming as Keaton’s Annie is, she’s at sea in her own life in a way that Keaton rarely was. Which takes nothing away from her truly charming portrayal, which for me reaches an apogee in the scene in which Annie sings the Great American Songbook classic “It Had To Be” you to a largely indifferent nightclub crowd.  

Like Annie, Keaton was an avid photographer. Those are her own pictures in the film, and her keen eye suggested even then that she could become a filmmaker of consequence. And she did. Her 1987 documentary Heaven is a quirky and moving feature-length montage about folks from all walks of life and their reflections on the ostensible afterlife. 

In the late ’70s she formed a professional and personal alliance with Warren Beatty, and played the firebrand writer and suffragette Louise Bryant in Beatty’s Reds. Like the Godfather pictures, Reds was a period piece, but seeing as how Bryant was a woman well ahead of her time, the contemporary feel that was such a great fit on Keaton was entirely apt. Beatty is fine in the movie, but Keaton’s performance leaves a mark. 

That was true also of 1977’s Looking For Mr. Goodbar. Based on a controversial bestselling novel by Judith Rossner about the post-Women’s Lib singles bar scene and its dire perils, the material was reframed by portentous director Richard Brooks into a moralistic scold movie. Yet Keaton’s performance sets off flinty sparks every minute she’s on screen — and she’s on screen almost every minute. Alan Parker’s Shoot The Moon is meretricious in a different way than Brooks’ film, but it is also largely saved by the acting — Keaton’s bathtub scene, where she’s smoking a joint and heartbrokenly singing the Beatles’ “If I Fell” never fails to reduce this viewer to tears. That’s the thing about Keaton — she just knew. She knew so many truths about human experience, and how to convey them in front of a camera in a way that removed the distance between you and the screen. 

A year after Shoot the Moon she appeared in director George Roy Hill’s adaptation of John Le Carré’s unforgiving (and still sadly relevant) novel about terrorism, counter-terrorism, and “which-side-are-you-really-on?” confusion in the Middle East, The Little Drummer Girl. She brought a quieter intensity to Gillian Armstrong’s Mrs. Soffel, playing the wife of a prison warden who falls for Mel Gibson, then at the height of his charisma and still a very nuanced actor. 

After which — and honestly, after such a run, you can’t blame her — she started taking easier, softer roles, going back to her comedic roots and catching then-married filmmaking team Charles Shyer and Nancy Meyers at the height of their zeitgeist-wave-catching period, making the mildly pernicious (her character is changed from fierce corporate shill to fiercer loving mom) but ultimately adorable (because of Keaton and the infant!) Baby Boom. Her career third act arguably yielded no great films, but there were a lot of solid entertainments in there. If you could get over the ostensible sacrilege of the Shyer-Meyers Father of the Bride reboots — this Elizabeth Taylor-Spencer Tracy-Myrna-Loy-Vincente-Minnelli loyalist can’t, and won’t — you can revel in the way she and Steve Martin trade comedic fours and also put across credible poignancy. Her reunion with Allen for Manhattan Murder Mystery is an enjoyable lark. And good for her for joining The First Wives Club, the demographically brilliant “don’t get mad, get everything” divorce comedy that had her seeking custody of lots of money alongside Goldie Hawn and Bette Midler. The best part of her latter-day work was its ensemble aspect; even a trifling piece like 2018’s Book Club, in which a group of older lady friends gets hot and bothered reading Fifty Shade of Grey (no really) gains watchability if not by gravitas but by dint of Keaton’s interactions with Jane Fonda, Mary Steenburgen and Candice Bergen. Truly a Hollywood survivor’s summit that was. And I’m sure those costars will chime in with their own tributes to the truly irreplaceable Diane. 

In Allen’s films she was more than just the female romantic lead, more than just an adorable foil for Allen’s schlemiel schtick — she represented the life force, a vital counterpoint to the morbidly obsessive neurotic Allen portrayed. 

Veteran critic Glenn Kenny reviews‎ new releases at RogerEbert.com, the New York Times, and, as befits someone of his advanced age, the AARP magazine. He blogs, very occasionally, at Some Came Running and tweets, mostly in jest, at @glenn__kenny. He is the author of the The World Is Yours: The Story of Scarface, published by Hanover Square Press, and now available for at a bookstore near you.