She’ll always be Annie Hall. The first time you see Diane Keaton, who died on Saturday at 79, in Woody Allen’s great touchstone of a romantic comedy, she’s walking into a tennis club, her eyes peering around as cautiously as a cat’s. Within seconds, of course, Annie is apologizing for herself, but the faltering, abashed quality of it all is pure unapologetic movie-star charisma — her grin like a sunbeam, her words tumbling out in an infectious clutter, until she finally coughs up that phrase (“La-di-da!”) almost as if it were a surrender. At that moment, Annie has given up trying to make a sensible sentence speak for her.
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