Critic David Thomson, in his book "The New Biographical Dictionary of Film," mentions that some stars radiate a kind of preternatural goodness, as warm and charming as sunshine—and Diane Keaton was one such star. She passed away on October 11th at the age of seventy-nine.
Keaton is remembered for the charm of her comedic attitude, but the core of all her work is that essential goodness—the sunshine that breaks through the fog of confusion—and this is what stays with audiences most powerfully. Her ambivalence about performing was deeply engaging: she wanted to be seen yet would hide under the brim of a hat, behind tinted glasses, or in the arms of an on-screen lover. The nuance of this ambivalence kept audiences in their seats, sometimes on the edge of them, because we’ve all faced similar questions when it comes to love or power: Is this mine to have and hold? Or should I give it back?
Keaton was not a star greedy for the spotlight. She stood apart from her own stardom even as she desired recognition. This deflection of her "self" was so successful that we hardly noticed her career lasted as long as those of her most successful male contemporaries—Pacino, De Niro, and so on—something extremely rare for a female star in Hollywood.
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