Close your eyes and you can still hear it — that jagged, unforgettable laugh-through-tears that could only belong to Diane Keaton. In ‘Something’s Gotta Give’ (2003), Nancy Meyers frames her in a wash of golden Hamptons light: Erica Barry, a 53-year-old playwright in a white turtleneck, alone at her computer, heartbreak spilling out as a play. Her fingers hover, her body shakes, and then she laughs — that singular, chaotic Keaton laugh. It’s funny not because Erica Barry is mocking sorrow, but because she knows how ridiculous and beautiful it is to feel this much. Keaton gives middle-aged womanhood a pulse, poetry, and wit.

To date, few scenes capture a woman unravelling and holding herself together in the same breath and a performer balancing the tightrope of comedy and ache so delicately. And to date, few actors could make it ring so true. Soon after Keaton’s passing at 79, Meyers, her frequent collaborator and friend of over 40 years, captured the actor’s essence perfectly when she remembered her as “a brilliant actress who time and again laid herself bare to tell our stories”.

Born Diane Hall in Los Angeles in 1946, Keaton was the daughter of a civil engineer and a homemaker who filled their house with scrapbooks and imagination. Her mother’s self-expression would become Diane’s lifelong compass; her father’s pragmatism the quiet counterpoint to her flair.

When Woody Allen cast her in the Broadway production ‘Play It Again, Sam’ (1969) and later in the seminal film ‘Annie Hall’ (1977), it was as though the world discovered a new kind of leading lady: neurotic yet radiant, vulnerable yet commanding. Her loose ties, oversized blazers, and boyish charm redefined how women could look and sound on screen.

But to say Keaton was just the muse of others would be to miss the point. She was the architect of her own chaos: a performer who believed that truth, even in comedy, must come from the body first. Her gestures were always slightly offbeat, her timing unpredictable, as though she were dancing on the edge of a private joke. “Acting,” she once said, “is about pretending you’re not pretending.”

To speak of Diane Keaton as a performer then is to grapple with contradiction: she seemed unforced, almost casual, and yet every nuance felt deliberate. She embraced flaws, ruptures, and odd symmetry. Her humour was tender, not aggressive; she could puncture self-importance with a look or a line. She risked being unlovely, unguarded, astonished, human. She never delivered a note too neatly, never reached for comfort, instead inhabiting the beautiful tangle of complication. In dramas, she could undercut intensity with a sparkle; in comedies, she grounded laughter in emotional truth.

Her range was staggering: from the tragic idealism of Kay Adams in ‘The Godfather’ (1972) to the self-effacing hilarity of ‘Baby Boom’ (1987) and the wistful introspection that accompanied playing a leukemia patient in ‘Marvin’s Room’ (1996). She played women who were flawed and full, who talked too much and felt too deeply.

She was never afraid to look foolish. In fact, she leaned into it with her high-pitched exclamations, flailing arms, and unfiltered honesty. Beneath all that eccentricity was something radical: the idea that a woman could be funny without being cruel, emotional without being weak, and could age without apology.

Her friendship with Meyers became one of Hollywood’s most enduring collaborations, built on a shared fascination with women who rebuild their lives in midair. Together, they made romantic comedies that felt like symphonies of self-discovery: ‘Something’s Gotta Give’ and ‘Baby Boom’ were not about finding love so much as finding oneself worthy of it. On set, Meyers often said, Keaton was the atmosphere — “sunlight with nerves”. She improvised lines, adjusted costumes, and rearranged scenes, always chasing something more truthful. The camera adored her because she gave it everything: the humour, the hesitation, the hurt.

Off-screen, Keaton lived as she acted —with curiosity and contradiction. She never married, adopted two children, collected houses, and photographed everything. She wore hats like declarations and filled her homes with history, texture, and ghosts of the past. “I’m still learning how to be myself,” she said in her seventies, her signature grin cutting through the self-deprecation.

In many ways, Keaton was Hollywood’s great realist disguised as a dreamer: someone who believed that the joke was never at life’s expense, but part of its design. Diane Keaton didn’t just play women — she reminded us what being one looked like when nobody was watching. She taught us that comedy could be confession, that fear could be art, and that grace might sometimes sound like a laugh breaking through tears. In every performance, she was essentially telling us the same thing: that life’s beautiful absurdity demands nothing less than our whole selves.