Diane Keaton died last weekend. I’ve been surprised by my own feelings about it. I am sad, yes, but also… I dunno. The world as a whole feels a little dimmer for our collective loss.
When I was a teenager I had the coolest job I have ever had; I was an usher at a movie theater. As silly as it sounds, I would love nothing more than to work at a movie theater for the entirety of my life. It was a place where imagination was brought to life and I was paid to be there everyday after school and on weekends.
I was already well aware of Diane Keaton when I started ushering. The Godfather and The Godfather II were required watching for every boy growing up in the United States. And favorite gay uncle made Annie Hall required watching. So when Baby Boom came out I knew who she was.
While Baby Boom wasn’t a particularly great movie – I think it was the midwife of the Hallmark Movie genre (and that is not a compliment) – it was still the thing that made me fall in love with Ms. Keaton. A strong, feisty-frazzled, smart, soft woman? Sign me the fuck up.
I was smitten.
I carried that small torch for her through the years. Her fashion sense, her charm, the characters she brought to life. I loved the way she always seemed so comfortable in her own skin. Honestly, that is one of the sexiest things anyone can do.
Mostly though, it was almost Pavlovian the way anytime I would see her I would just smile a massive smile and feel a certain swelling in the region where my heart would be. You know, if I had a heart.
The world is going to miss her light.
