Then Again Part 4

Bogged down by the same dilemmas, Mom and I shared a fear of failure, a concern for what others think, demeaning comparisons, and low self-esteem. In a way, Dorothy's bromides were a healthier version of my throwing up. After she "did her business," her system was purged and, like me, she felt better until she needed a new resolution to help cope with getting through yet another day. As a little girl, Mom put two and two together after she saw her friend Jean Cutler write "I will not put gum under my desk" on the blackboard one hundred times. Dorothy saved her one hundred "I will have more self-confidence"s for when she needed it the most-later, much later.

Itemizing what she accomplished or, "doggone it," how she was going to appreciate herself for once did help her weather the storm. I just wonder if it would have been different with an audience. As her only congregation, Mom was always in the business of being her own best friend. It's true Mother's put-ups gave her a much needed break-they helped smooth out the b.u.mpy road-but they didn't prod her to go further. Dorothy, the good girl, the good mother, but not always the good wife, had nothing to show for the role she accepted. Instead there was the day the truck came with the furniture. The day she got rid of the old couch for the new Pottery Barn linen love seats. The day she planted geraniums outside the picture window. And all those well-intended slogans on paper. There was that. And that was it. Nothing more, and no one to share it with, except Jack.

On the Other Side of the Same Coin Mother made her big choice early. She married. I made mine late. I adopted. At fifty-four Dorothy was put out to pasture with thirty-two more years of living staring her in the face. At sixty-five there is no pasture, and I'm not lonely. With an all-consuming new occupation-parenthood-and an extended family, I'm busy. Eleven years older than Dorothy when she quietly penciled in her parade of panaceas, I'm running around like a chicken with its head cut off, but I like it. I love it. It's hard to imagine life without Dexter's phone issues and Duke's preadolescent p.o.o.p jokes, which he insists on sharing as I drive him home from swim practice every day. We sing along to Katy Perry's new song, "Firework." We think it's really funny when he hits my arm every time he spots a VW punch buggy. Dexter and Duke have changed my life. People say they're lucky to have me. I don't know about that. That's not the real story. The real story is, I'm the lucky one. They've saved me, and I know what from: myself. Odd, isn't it? My life today is as full as Mother's was when she happily worked overtime raising a growing family in her mid-twenties.

In 2001 A.D. (After Duke), I began my first and only list. It's not that I wanted to. It's that I had to, and when I did, I knew what to call it: "To Do!" In the flurry of life I couldn't afford to have anything, or anybody, overlooked. I couldn't drop the ball. I didn't have time to look for a way to feel better. I had "To Do" it.

To Do! November 2010 1. The California sign is slated to be finished on Tuesday. The question is, will it fit the brick wall of the Lloyd Wright house? The letters are 5 feet high! Did anybody speak to the neighbors about the trash cans? Who's going to tell Stephanie B. the cabbage plant has to be removed? Let's face it; it's too English for a sustainable native California landscape. And those black plants. Oh my G.o.d, they look cruel within the context of the rest of the garden. I know, I know, yet another bad idea.

2. I've got to turn in the chapter on 1969 ... as soon as possible.

3. Call Bill Robinson. I miss him, and Johnny, and little Baby Dylan. I don't know how to keep close to them. Bill was a pivotal factor in the adoption of Dexter, and now that he and Johnny have adopted Dylan he's gone. New York seems so far away. I've got to call him. Do you have any ideas?

4. When is the T Magazine article out?

5. How about hiring Dorrie to scout out Navajo pictorial blankets? She knows the dealers better than anyone.

6. I don't know how I dropped the ball on Westmark School's Get Ready for 9th Grade a.s.sembly. I have to go. Should I take the 405 or Mulholland? Anyway, it starts at 2 o'clock. We'll discuss.

7. Stephanie, you've got to tell me the truth-how many flights do we have to take for the Unique Lives Lecture Series Tour? Who can I rehea.r.s.e my speech to besides Jessica Kovacevic, who's already been tortured one too many times? I'm starting to get nervous. Speaking of nervous, I don't think I can keep trying to memorize my speech while jogging on the streets of Beverly Hills. The Starline Bus Tours unfailingly drive by while I'm in the middle of rehearsing the final section-you know, when I sing a bit of "Seems Like Old Times." It's awful. I feel like an idiot. Is this speech going to work? Be honest. There's something inherently wrong about addressing my female contemporaries on the subject of me. It's too much. It reminds me of Katharine Hepburn's autobiography, Me.

8. Duke made a Nespresso for Jimmy, the car washer, yesterday. By the way, he's back from the hospital. You'll never believe this; he told me hiccups were the only symptom he had before his gallbladder was removed. Anyway, he wants a sponsorship for his bowling team. What do you think? I say yes. Most important, Duke was proud of himself for, number 1, making the coffee and, number 2, appearing to be generous.

9. Starting Tuesday, I drive Dexter to swim practice at 4:45 a.m. This means I can sit in the backseat of my mobile office and work on the rewrite of the memoir. I'm way behind. What to do? At least I'll get in a full two hours without interruptions. Starbucks opens at 5. I'll need it.

As for Dorothy I am thankful for the beautiful, round full moon last night.

I am thankful for the weekend Jack & I just had in Ojai.

I am thankful for the good feelings I have all at once for no reason.

I am thankful for the friends who respond to me.

I am thankful for my work at Hunter's Bookstore.

I am thankful for my new independence with money.

I am thankful for my more orderly, clear mind.

I take pride in being me, Dorothy D. Hall.

Loving Jack Number 1. Seeing him is beautiful.

Number 2. We both realize how important we are to one another.

Number 3. The other evening we looked at one another, held hands, and communicated our feelings of love and need.

7.

DI-ANNIE HALL.

Wake-Up Call, 2009 Getting up at three-thirty a.m. to catch a flight to L.A. after spending six weeks in New York shooting Morning Glory doesn't help the vertigo. As I spin my way to the Nespresso machine, waiting for the crystals in my ear to readjust, I think of that first shot on the first day. One minute I was on a mat in a fat suit, playing with a four-hundred-pound sumo wrestler; the next I was on a gurney, in a neck brace, looking up at the machine taking pictures of my brain. Like Humpty Dumpty, I took a great fall.

I think of the nurses at Columbia Presbyterian checking every three hours to see if I was alive. I think of the fall that took Natasha Richardson's life and know I'm lucky. I think of Duke, who said, "Mom, did you lose your memories?" I think of the people I worked with. There was Roger Michel, our bear of a director; beautiful Rachel McAdams; and legendary Harrison Ford. I think of the $65 million he made in 2008, beating out Johnny Depp for the t.i.tle of number-one box-office winner; that's pretty good for a sixty-five-year-old man. That's a lot of money. I think about money and worry like Dad used to. I worry about Emmie, our seven-year-old s.h.i.t-eating dog. I worry about Randy's liver, and Robin's daughter, Riley, with her new baby, Dylan. I worry about Duke's lack of boundaries. I worry about Dorrie's antiques business and Dexter's teen years. But mainly I worry about how long I can keep it all going. Which, of course, makes me think of the Unique Lives Lecture Series Tour, where I found myself on the road in Minneapolis, Des Moines, Boston, Toronto, Montreal, and Denver, in Carrie Underwood's new tour bus. What about all those women, my contemporaries, my sisters, in all those auditoriums listening to Diane Keaton-that's me-give a Unique Lecture on the subject of being a woman over sixty? When Stephanie Heaton (not to be confused with Keaton) and I spent the night in Carrie's bus, we pulled over to grab a Starbucks at the World's Largest Truck Stop, and I thought, Okay, I'm no Harrison Ford, but I'm making my way, and it's never boring.

As I wheel my suitcase into the hallway, I start to think about what's waiting for me back in L.A. Oh, G.o.d, school again. Already? Duke in third grade, Dex in eighth. Not possible. I think about the restoration of the Wright house I bought before the recession hit. I think about the complications of selling Mom and Dad's two oceanfront homes after the seawall collapsed down the block. I think about Dorrie, who doesn't want to sell; Robin, who does; and Randy, who's oblivious.

I throw on some Diane's Tuberose lipstick by L'Oreal. I think about walking barefoot in Central Park at nine P.M. last night, looking at fireflies while Duke and Dexter laughed themselves down the stainless-steel slide. Will this be the last year Dex allows herself to play like a kid? I think about Duke dressed up in a box seat, watching Billy Elliot tap-dance his way across the Broadway stage. It makes me wish I could live in New York again. I think about waiting in line on Fifth Avenue outside Abercrombie & Fitch with Dex, as she dreamed of boys, and suntans, and love, and kisses. I think about the morning we rode bikes over the Brooklyn Bridge, one of our country's greatest engineering feats in the greatest city of them all. I think of the 59th Street Bridge in Manhattan and the block of brownstones Woody and I walked past in the East 70s from Annie Hall. I don't want to leave this city. I want to stay. I want to go back to another day, not unlike today, where I also found myself up at three-thirty A.M., only then I was waiting to be picked up for my first day of shooting the Unt.i.tled Woody Allen Project in the spring of 1976.

Annie Hall ALVY: You want a lift?

ANNIE: Oh, why? Uh, you got a car?

ALVY: No, um ... I was going to take a cab.

ANNIE: Oh, no. I have a car.

ALVY: You have a car? I don't understand why ... If you have a car, so then why did you say, "Do you have a car?" like you wanted a lift?

ANNIE: I don't, I don't, geez, I don't know. I wasn't ... I got this VW out there. (To herself) What a jerk, yeah. (To Alvy) Would you like a lift?

ALVY: Sure. Which way you goin'?

ANNIE: Me? Oh, downtown.

ALVY: Down ... I'm going uptown.

ANNIE: Oh, well, you know, I'm going uptown too.

ALVY: You just said you were going downtown.

ANNIE: Yeah, well, but I can ...

Make Work Play Filming Annie Hall was effortless. During breaks, Woody would carry around a pack of Camels, take one out of his shirt pocket a la George Raft, flip it into his mouth, blow smoke rings, and never inhale. No one had any serious expectations. We were just having a good time moving through New York's landmark locations. As always, Woody concerned himself with worries about the script. Was it too much like an episode of The Mary Tyler Moore Show? I told him he was nuts. Relax.

If a scene wasn't working, Woody would do what he always did: rewrite it while Gordon Willis was setting up the shot. Rewrite frequently meant re-edit. Woody didn't hold his words in high regard; as a result, there was no excess fat in Annie Hall. The choice of Gordon Willis as cinematographer was a turning point and an unerring example of Woody breaking the rules. Like many funny men, he had a borderline contempt for comedy. But, unlike others, he used that att.i.tude to invent a host of witty visual approaches that gave Annie Hall weight. With Gordon at his side, Woody stopped being afraid of the dark. He learned how to shoot split screens and flashbacks with style. Gordon helped teach him to ch.o.r.eograph the master shot so it could be used to deliver the variety and impact an audience needed without cutting to close-ups. These innovations were new for comedy. Annie Hall, all dressed up in shadow and light, moving through time without a lot of arbitrary coverage, was seamless.

Woody's direction was the same. Loosen up the dialogue. Forget the marks. Move around like a real person. Don't make too much of the words, and wear what you want to wear. Wear what you want to wear? That was a first. So I did what Woody said: I wore what I wanted to wear, or, rather, I stole what I wanted to wear from cool-looking women on the streets of New York. Annie's khaki pants, vest, and tie came from them. I stole the hat from Aurore Clement, Dean Tavoularis's future wife, who showed up on the set of The G.o.dfather: Part II one day wearing a man's slouchy bolero pulled down low over her forehead. Aurore's hat put the finishing touch on the so-called Annie Hall look. Aurore had style, but so did all the street-chic women livening up SoHo in the mid-seventies. They were the real costume designers of Annie Hall.

Well, that's not entirely true. Woody was. Every idea, every choice, every decision, came from the mind of Woody Allen.

A Screening, March 27, 1977 Jack and I held hands at the screening of Annie Hall. It was closing night of the Filmex Festival in Century City. The theater was flooded with lights and fireworks overhead. Inside, we found seats in the front row only. We chose to sit on the steps at the back of the room. ANNIE HALL. I only saw Diane, her mannerisms, expressions, dress, hair, etc., the total her. The story took second place. When she sang, "It Had to Be You" in a room full of talk and confusion, I fought back tears. But the song "Seems Like Old Times" was the hard one to take; so tender. I was exploding inside. I tried to hold it all back. She looked beautiful. Gordon Willis did a very great job on the photography. She chose her own clothes and the gray T-shirt and baggy pants were "down home" for sure. Annie Hall is a love story. It seemed real. Annie's camera in hand, her gum chewing, her lack of confidence; pure Diane. The story was tender, funny, and sad. It ended in separation, just like real life.

The Hall family was comic relief, especially the Randy character, named Duane. Woody's character couldn't understand Duane's unique problems. Colleen Dewhurst as me was not a high spot. The Grammy Hall character was nothing more than a visual gag. And Jack's part was not impressive. The audience loved it though. They were clapping and laughing the whole way through. This will be a very popular movie.

Mom and I never discussed the Hall family as depicted in Annie Hall. What was there to discuss? I hadn't seen the movie. When I won the New York Film Critics Circle Award, I figured I'd better get myself to a movie theater before I gave my acceptance speech. It was 1978. I went to a matinee on 59th and Third. There was a smattering of people in the theater. I didn't hear any laughs. Like Mom, I was so consumed by the "me" of it all that I couldn't pay attention to the story. I kept thinking, What's all the fuss about? Predictably, I hated my face, the sound of my voice, and my awful "mannerisms." On the positive side, I knew I was lucky. And I was grateful. I didn't bother myself with the Hall family scenes. They were of no concern. First of all, not one character was even remotely identifiable. Weird Duane, played by Chris Walken, was hilarious but from the planet Mars. Woody's version of my family was comic relief. He wrote a generic WASP family and built some jokes around the dinner table. I didn't give the scene a second thought.

Most people a.s.sumed Annie Hall was the story of our relationship. My last name is Hall. Woody and I did share a significant romance, according to me, anyway. I did want to be a singer. I was insecure, and I did grope for words. After thirty-five years, does anybody care? What matters is Woody's body of work. Annie Hall was his first love story. Love was the glue that held those witty vignettes together. However bittersweet, the message was clear. Love fades. Woody took a risk; he let the audience feel the sadness of goodbye in a funny movie.

At seventy-five, after making forty-five films in forty-five years, he's the only director who without fail secures financing for his annual film. The deal includes complete control and final cut. It's not that other filmmakers haven't earned the right; it's that, in a business incapable of tolerating failure, Woody has chutzpah. And his movies are budgeted with reality in mind. It's a testimony to his particular brand of genius that he can still cast major movie stars while paying them minimum wage. The enticement? Five actors have received six Academy Awards from appearing in a Woody Allen movie, and ten have received nominations.

In the end it all boils down to words. Woody's words. He's either written or co-written every movie he's directed. Writing is the underpinning, infrastructure, point of departure, reason, and pretext for all of it.

A Phone Call Even though we broke up two years before we shot Annie Hall, I was still Woody's sidekick. I can't explain why we continued to click. Maybe, as with an old couch, we were comfortable with each other. We still enjoyed sitting in "Oldies' Row" at the entrance to Central Park, making observations on the parade of humanity pa.s.sing by. We still had fun with our "kitchen follies" and we still kept planning future projects, but things had changed. He was suddenly the comic genius. I was suddenly getting more opportunities. I met with Warren Beatty for his movie Heaven Can Wait and turned him down to hit the bars as Theresa Dunn in Looking for Mr. Goodbar. After Goodbar finished shooting, I went back to New York. When Warren called me on Christmas Eve, it wasn't about a job.

And he kept calling. In January of 1978 Warren and I started hanging out. I told myself it was temporary. I could handle it. Sure, he was smart, lawyer-smart. And, yes, he was still a mind-blowing dream of drop-dead gorgeous. I don't know why I thought I could manage things-well, that's not true, I didn't think at all. I fell. And I kept falling for a long time. He grabbed me from the first moment I saw him in the lobby of the Beverly Wilshire Hotel way back in 1972. I looked up, and in the distance I saw my dream come true in person. I also saw that there wasn't a woman within close proximity he didn't scrutinize, except me. He didn't scrutinize me, not then.

To Die For Warren turned out to be a far more complex character than I could have imagined when I saw him kiss Natalie Wood in Splendor in the Gra.s.s at the Broadway Theater in Santa Ana. I was in tenth grade. I'd never seen anything like Warren Beatty. By thing, I mean he wasn't real. He was to die for. And Natalie Wood? Well, she was me. I was her. When Bud and Deanie were forced to part, I was devastated. I even wrote Mr. Elia Kazan, the director, inquiring why the parents were so opposed to true love. Could he have changed the ending? What was the big deal about different social cla.s.ses? He did not respond. It's ironic; a couple of weeks ago I caught a glimpse of Splendor in the Gra.s.s on TV. There they were again, Bud and Deanie, still tormented, still in love. My own romance with Warren was not destined for the long haul either. For us it wasn't circ.u.mstance. It was character. I admit there was a smattering of two different worlds mixed in; after all, Warren was "The Prince of Hollywood" and I was, as my dad called me, Di-annie Oh Hall-ie.

Warren was infamous. We used to gossip about his conquests after Martha Graham dance cla.s.s at the Neighborhood Playhouse. Cricket Cohen knew a girl who knew a girl he picked up and took back to his hotel room at the Waldorf Astoria. Oh, my G.o.d, how awful, how humiliating. We all swore we would never fall into that kind of trap. Not us.

What I didn't know was, once Warren chose to shine his light on you, there was no going back. Within his gaze I was the most captivating person in the world. He fed on every nuance of my lopsided face and saw beauty. It was enchanting, but it was scary too. I was straddling two lives, in two different locations. I was with Warren, but because of Annie Hall everyone still thought I was Woody's girl.

Warren opened every door with his bulls.h.i.t detector fully charged. Always searching for what lay hidden behind the facade, he was the only person who was curious enough to ask me if my Annie Hall gla.s.ses were prescription. Nailed. While Woody encouraged my artistic endeavors with things like "P.S. Your new photos arrived. The best yet! Really!" Warren would look askance at one of my collages and say, "You're a movie star. That's what you wanted. You got it. Now deal with it. What is all this art stuff going to get you anyway?" That's what I liked about him; he told it like he saw it. And he saw it with a lot of variables.

When I compare Mother's relationship with Father to mine with Warren, there's no question Warren's promises were far more seductive than Jack Hall's could ever be. After I confessed how terrified I was to fly, Warren surprised me as I was about to board a flight to New York, took my hand, walked me into the plane, sat down still holding my hand, and never let go until we landed. Once safe on the ground he kissed me, turned around, and flew back to L.A. On Valentine's Day he bought me a sauna for one bathroom and a steam room for the other. He was full of magnanimous gestures. He also filled my head with crazy thoughts: I had enormous potential. I could be a director, a politician, as well as one of the most revered actresses in the world if I wanted. I would laugh and tell him he was out of his mind. But I loved it, every second, and I loved him, especially his insane largesse.

Diane There was a moment when we first sat down at dinner last night when I looked at you and you seemed to have such an unfair allotment of gifts that it frightened me. Plus you had time on your side too.

You've made a lot of money for the movie business and your percentages for the profits haven't been so huge that you should feel guilty about taking some of the industry's money and making your own film. I think they'd be happy to do it.

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 una.s.suming 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 pa.s.sed 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 fort.i.tude 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 a.s.sistant 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 pa.s.sed. 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 pa.s.sed 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 c.r.a.p 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. .h.i.t 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 "these d.a.m.n 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 G.o.d. 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 modic.u.m 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, una.s.suming, 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 b.u.mbled. 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.