I think that Diane Keaton She was something much better than pretty: she was a talker.
You know, he was one of those people you want to talk to all the time.
I’ve been thinking about her and her gifts for two days, and now I understand that all her multiple, bubbling talents were going to that center, that crazy breakwater: she was a conversational animal.
She was not understood to be silent. This is her conquest and a conquest of feminism. She was better speaking than in silence: there you could read her nerve, her exuberant charm, her adorable incorrectness… there you knew that she could give you a very good or very bad time and you surrendered to her gale and said “well, let it be whatever God wants.”
But the Keaton was not a still photo. She was not a mannequin, she was not a crude model. I didn’t have a good side.
She was a woman made for conversation.
What I’m saying is not that common. This is a rare miracle.
There are not so many people in the world who invite us with their existence to the dazzling and lively thing of conversation, to conversation of height, fast, chaotic, agile, very fresh, with flashes of comedy and drama but always with tension and tenderness.
Clumsiness was essential to his grace. She stumbled because she had many ideas and very little time to express them, in short: only one life.
One cannot imagine walking through Chamberí or Manhattan with as many people as with her.
One always dreams, deep down, debating with Diane Keaton on the streetan endless woman who made you want to talk and walk, to walk talking to make yourself roll downhill, to unravel yourself on the cobblestones and at the door of the cinemas or the theater or in the old people’s cafes, mixing a Freudian trauma with a childhood joke or a very dirty secret that she embraces.
And it’s getting dark on the pier and it’s already a little windy and she tightens her big movie hat and smiles using her entire mouth and the cars stop dead, piling up.
One gives thanks then, almost always in silence, for having such a splendid interlocutor, so intelligent and neurotic and verbose and sentimentalsomeone messy but who certainly plays everything to the card of talent, and one asks oneself what one will do without Diane Keaton or without those who are like her, without those who help us reveal ourselves by listening and speaking, without those who taught us that all modern problems, in the end, are problems of syntax.
Lack of communication is the issue, he said Bergman. Perhaps the only issue.
Everything is about lack of communication except Diane Keaton, who is about the love that is made by talking.
She fell in love with men with whom she talked a lot. As Woody Allen o Al Pacino. She had a relationship with the first for three years (on and off). With the second, twenty (intermittent). And then they chatted all their lives.
At the end of the day, sleeping with people isn’t as important as talking to people.
We also know that twelve minutes into the footage Annie HallKeaton no longer wants to have sex with Allen, that is, she was always a very smart woman, even in fiction inspired by herself.
Diane Keaton was one of those girls you treat like your best friend until you realize you’ve been in love with her for sixty years. and one day he dies, or you die, and there is no longer the possibility of saying the unspeakable..
Let them tell Al Pacino when, after bullying her for decades, he confessed, microphone in hand, in his tribute: “I love you. Forever.” And the eyes of the most handsome and baddest boy of all shone.
You, before that, would have also given everything for her, you would have enjoyed every little thing of hers: you would have gotten out of bed at five in the morning to go save her from a spider that sneaked into her bathroom or you would have lost your ass for playing tennis with her with those high collars she wore.
I think it was a spectacle just to see her live.
Diane did important things, difficult things for women of her time: live like a man.
Dress like a man.
Get paid like a man.
He made manly jokes about his allergy to marriage. He said I was defective, that I was strange, that I didn’t know anything and that I hadn’t learned anything. He did not say the essential thing because it was not necessary: that she existed and loved outside the canon, outside the classic institutions of affection and family.
She didn’t get Botox or wear uncomfortable dresses or live for the gaze of others. He wanted to experience all ages. Others were beautiful and sterile like plastic flowers. She was attractive and interesting in the mud and in life.
She moved her hands a lot while she spoke, as if always asking for forgiveness for what she had just said, and we forgave her tirelessly: no one has ever been as cool as Diane Keaton and his way of elegantly doing what he really wanted.