la di da (remembering diane keaton)

Annie Hall

I was about twelve when I first watched Annie Hall.

It was in a real theater—the kind with red velvet seats, a big screen, a bucket of buttered popcorn, and plenty of previews.

I was “coming of age,” feeling far more mature and wise than I actually was, and that film somehow became part of that small - but significant - awakening.

I don’t remember where the theater was or with whom I watched it, but I remember falling in love—not with Woody Allen, but with Diane Keaton.

That was me up there on the screen - insecure, a little wacky, nervous, and destined (I suspected) to be not a particularly good driver.

And in truth, that has always been me.

Do you recall the balcony scene? Woody Allen and Annie Hall are talking—awkwardly, superficially—while subtitles reveal what they’re really thinking.

Even my twelve-year-old self understood that tension between what we say and what we feel. I could relate completely.

What’s odd is that I easily forget most things - books I’ve read, names of acquaintances, even parts of my own past (perhaps it’s a wayward synapse in my brain).

But I remember Annie Hall. I remember Diane Keaton.

So, when I heard Diane Keaton had died a few weeks ago, it hit me. I didn’t know her, of course—only the woman I saw in films, in interviews, and in her 2024 memoir, Then Again—but somehow, she had taken up residence in my imagination.

She felt like a part of my story, my upbringing, someone I knew or wanted to know. 

Talking with friends after her death, I realized I wasn’t alone.

“Oh, I just loved her.”
“Those hats! That style!”
“She seemed so real.”

And she was. As the tributes poured in, those who knew her best echoed what the rest of us sensed.

“She was always a spark of life and light, constantly giggling at her own foibles, being limitlessly creative—in her acting, her wardrobe, her books, her friends, her home, her library, her worldview.” — Jane Fonda

“It’s grammatically incorrect to say ‘most unique,’ but all rules of grammar—and I guess anything else—are suspended when talking about Diane Keaton. Unlike anyone the planet has experienced or is likely to again, her face and laugh illuminated any space she entered.” — Woody Allen

“People will miss her, but more than that, they will remember her. She left a mark that cannot fade. She was unstoppable, resilient, and above all, deeply human.” — Al Pacino

And that got me wondering—what is it about Diane Keaton that we all love so much?

Is it her authenticity?

For decades, Diane Keaton charted her own course, gracefully defying the expectations that often confine women in Hollywood—and beyond. From the roles she played in movies to her own personal life, Diane Keaton did it her way.

She never married, choosing instead to build a family on her own terms, adopting her two children later in life. She dressed the way she wanted to dress, spoke the way she wanted to speak, and seemed to live by a rulebook that no one else could see - but one that everyone wanted to borrow from.

There was no artifice about her. Her self-possession—wrapped in humor, humility, and those signature layers of menswear—made her feel like an old friend, or the cool aunt who never quite fit in (and didn’t care to).

Or was it her vulnerability?

Whether in a comedy or a drama, Keaton had an unmatched gift for emotional transparency. She could make us laugh one minute and ache the next. There was always a flicker of fragility behind her charm, and she wasn’t afraid to show it. She made vulnerability cool well before Brené Brown spoke of it.

She was never afraid to look foolish or tender, to stammer or break into laughter mid-scene. Even her pauses had meaning. She made imperfection seem not just acceptable, but endearing.

Or could it have been her humor and humanity?

She was—offbeat, self-aware, delightfully unpredictable. The “la di da” catchphrase from Annie Hall wasn’t written into the script; it was her. Those quirky, half-articulated phrases came straight from Diane herself. That was her genius - she made her own idiosyncrasies cinematic.

As Al Pacino said, she was “deeply human,” and that’s what her humor was—a reminder that being a little odd, a little nervous, a little off-script, is often the truest thing we can be.

I suppose that’s why her death struck such a chord. It wasn’t just the loss of an actress; it felt like saying goodbye to a small part of my own becoming.

When I first met her—on that screen all those years ago—I was a girl on the edge of adolescence, trying on maturity like a too-big coat. And there she was, Diane Keaton, showing me that growing up didn’t have to mean sanding down your edges. You could be awkward and witty and vulnerable and uncertain and still be.

All these years later, I still recognize that girl in myself—the one who may laugh too loudly (or snort), who can say the wrong thing, stumbles occasionally, and would love to be able to wear those fun hats.

Watching Diane Keaton taught me that those things aren’t flaws; they’re texture. They’re life.

And maybe that’s her real legacy - she made authenticity look effortless. She gave permission for all of us—especially women—to be exactly who we are, without apology or pretense.

La di da, Diane.

Thank you for sharing your spirit, your giggles, your stumbles, and your style with not just your family and friends, but with all of us.

And thank you for the constant reminder that being yourself is always more than enough.