The millpond calm of her face, its beauty, its gentleness, its openness and unworldliness became even more heart stopping when she laughed or cried – and generations of moviegoers felt their own crush on Diane Keaton escalate into something more. She was more than America’s sweetheart: Keaton was the sophisticated, sweet-natured, unaffectedly sensual woman with whom America was unrequitedly in love. Diane Keaton was out of America’s league.
In the golden age of the American New Wave in the 1970s, she was at the centre of that era’s great comedy and tragedy: as Kay, the innocent wife of Al Pacino’s Michael Corleone in Coppola’s The Godfather (1972), she was the aghast, complicit witness to mob toxicity and murder, paralysed with disillusion and fear as she is shut out of her husband’s dealings in his private sanctum – and then, in the next film, like a modern-day Medea, Diane Keaton’s Kay reveals to the icily infuriated Michael the awful truth about her miscarriage.
