“La-di-da,” said Diane Keaton in “Annie Hall,” sticking her hands in her menswear trousers and fiddling with her fedora. “La-di-da.”
I was in my early 20s, a naïve actress who had just moved from New York City to Los Angeles to jumpstart my career, the first time I saw the classic, semi-autobiographical movie about the relationship between Woody Allen and Diane Keaton. I watched as Diane/Annie described her Midwestern childhood, met with her analyst, and made out with Woody Allen before moving on to a Hollywood record exec. I rolled my eyes. “Ugh,” I thought. “What’s wrong with this crazy woman? I will never be like her. She’s a men’s tie-wearing ditzy, clumsy, neurotic mess with a series of failed, overwrought relationships. No thank you.” Keep reading »











