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. That’s probably the moment when a great many people in the audience, men and women alike, fell in love with her.

Yet part of why the blushing, halting charm o

See Full Page