Then Again

by Diane Keaton

  Stop messing around and do it. You’d do it better than anybody. You know more than anybody. Its rough edges would be fascinating. I can set it up early. And either produce or get completely out of your way.

  Do it now. It will make you feel much better about movies in general and acting in particular.

  From someone who admired you at a distance last night. Who would like to get to know you better.

  Warren

  He lived in a four-hundred-square-foot penthouse on top of the Beverly Wilshire Hotel stacked to the ceiling with books and scripts, tons of scripts. It was an unassuming bachelor pad sitting on some of the best real estate in Beverly Hills. He owned an art deco house on ten acres at the top of Mulholland Drive, which he was going to restore into the perfect home. Warren and the notion of home were not a match made in heaven. Always curious, he solicited my design ideas by driving me up into Coldwater Canyon. As he pointed out Jack Nicholson’s gate on the right and the panoramic view of L.A. on the left, I heard ringing from what appeared to be a large box. Warren put it to his ear and started talking. It was a car phone, maybe the first.

  I listened to him broker a deal with Charlie Bluhdorn, the head of Paramount Pictures, as the smell of stale vitamins from his glove compartment distracted me from the fact that waiting would be my future with “The Pro.” It was impossible to drag him away from a phone, a restaurant, a meeting, a club, you name it. Jack Nicholson’s solution was to make arrangements to meet Warren at noon, knowing he would arrive at two. I didn’t know how to schedule my life like that. Instead, I paced back and forth on the terrace of the Beverly Wilshire or sat waiting on the rented white furniture in his unfinished masterpiece, wondering what happened to the series of failed architects whose drawings and plans were stacked everywhere. How did I ever get to the top of the hill with Warren Beatty anyway? Did he love me, or was I destined to be one of many women who would be driven to the top only to be dropped off at the bottom?

  Warren was always working on something but tormented by the prospect of “going to work.” He forced himself to make Heaven Can Wait, his co-directorial debut with Buck Henry. It was a phenomenal success and landed him on the cover of Time magazine, but it didn’t change his approach. He still had hundreds of projects in varying states of preparation with people like Buck, Robert Towne, and Elaine May. There was the Howard Hughes script, the remake of An Affair to Remember, and the one he kept mentioning about a couple of Communists. Warren’s problem was commitment. Dustin Hoffman once said, “If Warren had stayed a virgin, he’d be known as the best director in the world.”

  On his arm, I was ushered into the homes of people like Katharine Graham, Jackie Kennedy, Barry Diller, Diane von Furstenberg, Jack Nicholson, Anjelica Huston, Sue Mengers, Diana Vreeland, Gay and Nan Talese. I held my own for a while but never quite passed the savvy/smarts/endurance test. In the midst of such remarkable people, I would long to go back to the open arms of my family. I had a few healthy instincts, but I didn’t have the fortitude to prolong my moment in the sun. I preferred retreating.

  8

  SOMETHING BIG

  FOR A SMALL FAMILY

  Black and White

  I was having my portrait taken by Irving Penn for the cover of Vogue magazine when an assistant rushed in to announce he’d heard I’d been nominated for an Academy Award. I didn’t know how to respond. I’d always thought a nomination would play out like winning Mrs. Highland Park did for Mom. A curtain would open to an audience of thousands applauding, while a crown was placed on my head as I stood surrounded by a new wardrobe, a Cadillac Seville, and keys to a home in Encino. Instead, I was sitting in front of a white backdrop, worrying about the stylist’s offhanded remark about my shoulders being too small to wear a strapless gown. She pulled no punches. Mr. Penn’s brilliance, as well as his aristocratic manner, didn’t fill me with confidence either. When the makeup artist told me the right side of my face was probably better than the left, I forgot all about the fact that my biggest teenage dreams had come true—I was a movie star and Warren Beatty was my boyfriend.

  Being familiar enough with Irving Penn’s genius, I knew a black-and-white cover would be amazing. How I got the gumption to try to sell Vogue the idea is still hard to believe. I had no clout. But I drove a hard bargain. It was black and white or nothing. Vogue passed. And that was it. Needless to say, opportunities with Vogue did not come up again. I repeated the same demand when I posed for the cover of Newsweek in 1980 before the opening of Reds. I actually asked Richard Avedon if he would take a few black-and-white photographs along with the color. He did. When the contact sheets arrived, sure enough, the black-and-white close-ups were better. I begged Newsweek to use them. I even called Avedon to see if I could enlist his help in my struggle to win. Newsweek went with the color. In 2009, thirty years later, I finally landed a black-and-white cover for More magazine. Ruven Afanador was the photographer.

  February 23, 1978

  I heard over radio KRAC that Diane has been nominated for Best Actress for Annie Hall. So many loose nerve endings. I couldn’t settle down. What a state to be in, all alone. This news should have been shared, like when I heard Robin passed the state exam, or like when Randy got published in a major magazine, or like when I got a photo job, or like when Jack succeeded, or Dorrie found a job on her own, like that. But I was alone, so what could I do? I called Jack. Then I called Diane. She wasn’t home. When she finally called me later, she couldn’t talk long, because Irving Penn was photographing her for a Vogue cover coming up soon.

  Sunday night we are scheduled to go out to eat with Diane and Warren Beatty. How will I know what to say to Warren Beatty, how to act, what to wear? Think of it. His sister is nominated. His girlfriend is nominated. What will he do? Where will his loyalties lie? We will be limousined to the music center on Oscar Night. Dorrie will go with Diane, sitting separately. The rest of us will be together in one row, and we’ll all go to the party afterwards. I could hardly sleep.

  High Heels with Socks

  When I told Grammy Hall I’d been nominated for an Academy Award, she shook her head. “That Woody Allen is too funny-looking to pull some of that crap he pulls off, but you can’t hurt a Jew, can you? How’s Dorothy doing anyway? She looks tired, and your Dad’s getting gray fast worrying about Randy. I still don’t know what his poetry means anyhow. There’s no rhyme to it. Say, are you still seeing that Beatty? Yeah, I’d stick to the guy with money. He’s a pretty still fellow, that Beatty though. He’s awfully artificial-looking, and he’s a womanizer too, ain’t he?”

  Without a stylist (I didn’t know what a stylist was) I drove to Rodeo Drive and hit the stores in Beverly Hills. I knew I couldn’t get away with a hat, so I decided to give the layered look all my attention. At Ralph Lauren I bought a vest and two full skirts made of linen. I picked up a pair of fancy slacks to wear underneath at Armani, where I also found a linen jacket, a crisp white shirt, a black string tie, and, of course, a scarf to punch it all up. I bought a belt from Georgio’s. And I borrowed a pair of Robin’s socks to wear with the high heels I purchased from Saks. It was Annie Hall all the way.

  That night I dreamed my caps became translucent. Buckets of water leaked in through a hole where the gums hit the porcelain. In order to be ready for the awards ceremony, I had to stand on my head to drain the liquid for twenty-four hours and missed the show.

  D-Day

  Dorrie and I got out of the limo to bandstand platforms full of screaming people. Kirk Douglas spoke into Army Archerd’s microphone as he waved to the crowd. The frenzy of outstretched arms couldn’t have cared less about Kirk Douglas. They were shouting for the attention of a twenty-four-year-old stunner named John Travolta, approaching his first big moment on the red carpet. That’s what I noticed. Nothing lasts.

  The three-hour ceremony was endless anxiety. Midway through, I snuck to the lobby, where I caught Richard Burton smoking a cigarette. He looked up and said something about doubting he would ever win one of “thes
e damn things.” I nodded. What else could I do? I was standing next to a legend. He was right. He didn’t win. Richard Dreyfuss did. The image of Dreyfuss slapping his hands and pumping his fists was hard to top, but the encounter with Richard Burton’s face up close and personal had more staying power. I guess losing is a more human experience.

  At the time it didn’t dawn on me how inappropriate I looked in my “la de da” layered getup, set against the backdrop of gorgeous women in spectacular gowns. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Jane Fonda. Oh, my God. Who was I kidding? I wasn’t better than Jane Fonda or Anne Bancroft or Shirley MacLaine or Marsha Mason. They were fabulous.

  Dorrie sat next to me and it helped, but I didn’t know where I was, or who I was, or how I got there, or what to say. When I heard the D sound in a first name that became Diane, I still wasn’t sure, but I got up anyway and more or less rushed to the podium. I knew winning had nothing to do with being the “best” actress. I knew I didn’t deserve it. And I knew I’d won an Academy Award for playing an affable version of myself. I got it. But the fact that Annie Hall, a comedy, won best picture thrilled me. For some unfathomable reason, comedy is invariably relegated to the position of second cousin to drama. Why? Humor helps us get through life with a modicum of grace. It offers one of the few benign ways of coping with the absurdity of it all. Looking back, I’m so happy and so grateful and so proud to be in a Great American Comedy.

  My first fabulous woman, the most fabulous woman of all, had been “Miss Hepburn at Home” on the cover of Life magazine in 1953. As pictured, Audrey was the personification of beauty, with a splash of innocence and awe mixed in. She took my breath away. The impact of such a casual, unassuming, yet stunning photograph must have been the inspiration for my obsession with black-and-white covers. You can imagine my shock when Audrey Hepburn rushed up to me after I won the Academy Award and told me the future was mine. “Really, oh, I don’t know. Wow. I don’t know about that, I mean the future and all, but you’re … you … you’re my idol, I’m just … what can I say? I’m so honored to meet you.” I stumbled and bumbled. What could I do? This was not “Miss Hepburn at Home.” This woman was old.

  Everything else about the Academy Awards has all but disappeared. I’ve forgotten the ball, the congratulations, the fun, even who was there. What remains is Richard Burton and Audrey Hepburn. Nothing could have prepared me for the loneliness on his face or the elegance with which Miss Hepburn handed over the mantle of “movie star.” It was almost as if in a camera’s flash, Richard Burton had become a broken man, and Audrey Hepburn, my one true without equal, beyond compare, second to none, was no longer a perfect still life.

  Audrey Hepburn was sixty-three when she died of cancer. She was forty-eight when I met her, not exactly what you’d call old. Backstage, I pretended to listen to her words, but in truth I couldn’t get my mind off age and what it does to a person. Maybe it was said best by Cher: “There is only value to having the look you have when you are young and no value to the look you have when you are older.” Instead of taking the time to have a conversation with Audrey Hepburn, I chose to hightail my way out of her company as fast as I could. It is another regret in a growing list of regrets.

  Woody woke up the morning after and opened The New York Times. On the front page he read that Annie Hall won best picture and went back to work on his next script, Interiors, a drama. Woody stood by his principles. To him there was no “best” in an art form—that included no best director, no best picture, and definitely no best actress. Art was not a Knicks basketball game.

  Even Grammy Hall was interviewed by the local Highland Park newspaper. She had her picture taken with a photograph of Woody in her right hand and one of me in the left. “People say I’m in the clouds, I ain’t in no clouds. I’ll tell you one thing about the Academy Awards. It’s something big for a small family. That Woody Allen must be awfully broad-minded to think of all that crap he thinks of.”

  2009

  Before I opened my computer in the parking lot today, I relived one of my favorite memories. It’s the one with Woody and me sitting on the steps of the Metropolitan Museum after it’s closed. We’re watching people parade out of the museum in summer shorts and sandals. The trees to the south are planted in parallel lines. The water in the fountain shoots up with a mist that almost reaches the steps we sit on. We look at silver-haired ladies in red-and-white-print dresses. We separate the mice from the men, the tourists from the New Yorkers, the Upper East Siders from the West Siders. The hot-pretzel vendor sells us a wad of dough in knots with clumps of salt stuck on top. We make our usual remarks about the crazies and wonder what it would be like to live in a penthouse apartment on Fifth Avenue overlooking the Met. We laugh and say the same things we always say. We hold hands and keep sitting, just sitting, as the sun begins to set. It’s a perfect afternoon. There were many perfect afternoons with Woody.

  Woody never chose to join me in the sad-sack nostalgia of temporal concerns. He didn’t regret the past or try to bring back perfect afternoons that most likely weren’t perfect except in memory. He’s never spoken of his Academy Awards with an ounce of pride. He doesn’t speak of them at all. Even funny is preferred without sentiment. He loves to dish it out. And the deal is, nobody does it better than Woody. He’s mastered the put-down. I just wish he would do it more often, like he did at my Lincoln Center honor a few years back.

  Lincoln Center Tribute

  “I got a call asking if I would say some nice things about Diane. I said, Yes, I can think of some nice things. Keaton for one thing is punctual. She, she, she’ll always show up on time, and she’s thrifty; she knows the value of a dollar. She, um … what else can I say about her … She has wonderful handwriting. She’s … I’m reaching. Uh … She’s, uh, beautiful. She was always beautiful. She’s remained beautiful over the years. She’s not beautiful in the conventional sense of the word beauty. By the conventional sense I mean ‘pleasing to the eye.’ She has great conviction in her own taste. She always dresses with the black clothes and the hat and the sensible shoes. She looks to me like the woman who comes to take Blanche DuBois to the institution. It’s grammatically incorrect to say someone is ‘the most unique’ or ‘so unique,’ but, you know, Diane is the most unique person that I’ve ever known. That could be interpreted as weirdness but she’s, you know, she’s truly one of a kind … I think.”

  I miss Woody. He would cringe if he knew how much I care about him. I’m smart enough not to broach the subject. I know he’s borderline repulsed by the grotesque nature of my affection. What am I supposed to do? I still love him. I’ll always be his Lamphead, Monster, Cosmo Piece, his simple-is-as-simple-does housemeat, and Major Oaf. How do I tell “Uncle Woodums” about my lurve, I mean loave, I mean loof? How can I tell him to please “take care of all your fingers and toes and think sweet thoughts, write if you get a chance, and hang by your thumbs”?

  Annie Hall changed my life. When the movie proved to have the kind of legs I’d fantasized but couldn’t envision … I made a U-turn and withdrew. As much as I appreciated the accolades, I wasn’t prepared for the discomfort—or, rather, the guilt—that came with it. I tried going back home. I drove down to my parents’ new house on Cove Street at the beach in Corona del Mar. I hung out with Mom. We took pictures of suburbia with our new Nikon F’s. Dorrie and I went to swap meets. Randy was writing, and Robin was employed as a visiting nurse caring for the elderly. Warren was getting more serious about directing the love story of John Reed and Louise Bryant set against the Russian Revolution.

  I went back to New York and hung out with my friends Kathryn Grody and Carol Kane. What did I think I would get by refusing all the attention I had wanted for so long? This new life was scary. Instead of taking it head-on, I tried to deny fame for as long as I could—maybe too long.

  Woody’s first drama fit right into my program of avoidance. Interiors was, let’s just say, not commercial. Miscast as a brilliant writer in the vein of Renata Adler, I
smoked cigarettes and knotted my brow in an effort to seem intelligent. The words Woody wrote didn’t fit on the lips of my experience. The only things that distracted me from my discomfort in the role were legendary Geraldine Page and Sandy Meisner’s favorite actress, Maureen Stapleton.

  Every morning Geraldine Page trudged to the set in rags, lugging two shopping bags full of mending. She’d bend over, pull out her husband Rip Torn’s old clothes, and patch his pants while she was in the makeup chair. I couldn’t wrap my mind around the fact that one of the greatest actresses in the world was a bag lady. If anything, her homeless appearance added to her charisma. When Woody gave her direction, she smiled, nodded her head politely, then completely disregarded everything he said. Before one of her extremely emotional close-ups, I stood next to the camera, about to feed her my lines, when she point-blank asked me to leave. As I watched from a distance, I understood. My presence would have stolen her freedom. Maybe all that Neighborhood Playhouse sharing with your fellow actors, all that living truthfully together in the given imaginary moment, wasn’t for everyone. Geraldine Page was an acting genius. Rules don’t apply to genius.

  Maureen Stapleton, on the other hand, had the appearance of a more predictable approach. She wanted the other actors to be there for her close-ups. With her big round Irish face, Maureen seemed to be suspended in a permanent state of surprise, or frenzy. How did she do it so effortlessly? No one knew. At the end of shooting one day, I waited for her in the teamster van. She was a big woman. Her body didn’t have much give, but she managed to lift it into the seat next to me and said, “Someday you’ll be old too, Diane.”

  The solitary year of shooting Reds in England was an emotional two steps back and no steps forward. I wasn’t prepared for playing Louise Bryant, someone far less romantic than I’d imagined. She became my cross to bear. I didn’t like her. There was nothing charming about her will to be recognized as an artist in her own right. Her pursuit of the magnetic revolutionary John Reed was suspect and, frankly, laced with envy. I hated her. It was a problem. Rather than face the challenge, I did what I usually do under pressure: I backpedaled.