Then Again

by Diane Keaton

  At age forty, Jack Hall quit his job as Santa Ana City Hall’s civil engineer to become the president of Hall & Foreman, Incorporated. He gave credit where credit was due, claiming every bit of his business acumen had been enhanced 100 percent by applying Carnegie’s and Peale’s tried-and-true techniques. Mom must have been sick and tired of hearing Dad list the twelve steps he learned to be an effective leader. But guess what? Within a few years he was a self-made success.

  By 1969, Dad’s business was booming. Mom let her hair grow long and wore bell-bottoms. They began to drink socially. She became more liberal. He became more conservative. Even though they were attractive and, by Southern California standards, almost wealthy, it didn’t make them happier.

  The problems began when Dad started inserting his self-help solutions into the family dynamic, especially regarding Randy, who didn’t have a firm handshake or “plan ahead” and wasn’t always “positive.” Toastmasters was still a form of torture for Randy, even though he told Mom he loved it.

  PACE

  There is no record of how Dad discovered PACE, an acronym for Personal and Company Effectiveness. PACE was described as a method to help people better understand what it would take to make more productive use of their talents while further enhancing their personal and professional success. But he did. Everyone in my family went to San Diego for the two-week summits, filled with seminars guided by specialized counselors in the field; everyone except me.

  Daniel Whiteside was the director of youth activities. Neither Randy, Robin, nor Dorrie has any memory of him. Years later I found his qualifications on a website, which stated that he has a master’s degree in language arts from the University of California at San Francisco and the equivalent of a doctorate from the Interstate College of Personology.

  Personology was developed in the 1930s by Edward Vincent Jones, a Los Angeles circuit court judge who took notes on the behavioral patterns of people who appeared in his courtroom. Judge Jones, a close friend of Whiteside’s parents, eventually “proved” that he could predict people’s behavior by observing their facial features. Examples of Personology correlations are: (1) Thick, unruly hair: less sensitive. (2) Thin hair: extremely sensitive. (3) Broad-jawed: authoritative in speech and action. (4) Square, angled chin: can be combative. (5) Heart-shaped jaw or chin: tends to be passive.

  Randy’s jaw is wide. According to the principles of Personology, that meant he was confident, assured, and domineering. Robin must have been passive and compliant because of her narrow chin. Dorrie’s hair is thick and coarse. Was she really less sensitive, even though her ability to understand and share feelings for others was unusually intuitive? Did Whiteside even notice the Hall family adolescents’ facial features? Or had he put aside the research required for the equivalent of a doctorate from the College of Personology? Maybe he was in the process of creating his own “Three in One Concepts.”

  As for James W. Newman, the founder of PACE, Dad couldn’t have cared less if he was a certified psychiatrist or psychologist. He bought the package hook, line, and sinker. Dad’s decision to implement the principles of PACE as a replacement for help from a genuine psychiatrist backfired, like all of his attempts to guide Randy into the responsibilities of his role as Junior Jack.

  As Emmet’s nephew and Mary Alice’s son, Dad was attracted to impostors, swindlers, and frauds. It was part of his DNA. He didn’t question Dale Carnegie and Norman Vincent Peale. The thought that they might take advantage of the average Joe’s need to believe in simple solutions to complex problems never entered his mind. Ironically, Dad became successful despite being gullible. He actually had a craft and a degree from USC. Little did he know it was his hard work combined with an ingenuous manner of being honest to the point of naïve that made Hall & Foreman one of the most successful engineering firms in Orange County. His straightforward manner and lack of artifice worked wonders on everyone except his family.

  August 15, 1969

  Jack sent Randy to PACE for a retreat in La Jolla. Robin is going next week; Dorrie too. I just hope Jack is right and it works. He feels everyone in the family will profit from the benefits of PACE. We can’t work Diane in because she’s busy with her own life, but maybe later in the year.

  August 22, 1969

  “Hey, everybody, this is my mom and her name is Dorothy.” Randy made me feel like a queen when we picked him up after a week at PACE. He said it was a sort of “mountaintop-unreal-experience that makes it hard to drop back down to the flatlands.” That’s where the test comes. Can “I” make it work with others who don’t have PACE in their lives? “I” can if “I” try.

  September 1, 1969

  Robin came home from PACE. She loved it; Dorrie too. But it’s a constant strain to keep PACE in practice. So many things distract us. I hope it will work and we will be better people because of our strengths. The kids are seriously hanging on to the PACE concepts. They continue to read the books and practice deep relaxation. Jack feels they’ve learned so much. He has a lot of confidence.

  Five Against One

  My siblings survived PACE. Life went on. I stayed in New York. For Dad, it was the same. Number 1: Encourage everyone by making our faults seem easy to correct. Number 2: Try to make us happy about doing what he suggested. Number 3: Ask questions instead of directly giving us orders. And number 4: Talk about his own mistakes before indirectly calling attention to ours. He gradually gave up trying. After all, it was five against one.

  September 5, 1969

  Diane was on Merv Griffin tonight. She was Diane. Her walk, her laugh, her jumble of words. When she sat between Bob Hope and Merv, they teased her about dating. Bob Hope said, “All right, Diane, who is he?” She couldn’t get her words out. She was nervous and giggly, but with Bob Hope next to her everything she said was unaccountably funny. He actually made a comedienne out of Diane. I can’t exactly explain. Both Merv and Bob played off her all evening. I took pictures. Dad taped the whole thing.

  September 18, 1969

  I worked up enough nerve to call Bowers Museum to have the director look at my photos—whew! That took courage. I am trying to pull together enough good photographs to show him. I’m crossing my fingers.

  Form Letter to Potential Magazine Editors

  Mr. John C. Smith

  Art Editor

  XXX Magazine

  (Address)

  Dear Mr. Smith:

  I can bring exceptional photography with strong natural character qualities to your magazine. The enclosed resume highlights a glimpse of my professional achievements in both photography and art, as well as my academic background.

  The enclosed two photographs necessarily represent only a small segment of my scope of work. While I am flexible on subject matter, my emphasis on the natural persists in all my work.

  I would like to accept a freelance assignment for XXXX magazine and can promise photographic excellence, not only as a photographer but also as an artist. If you are interested in seeing more of my work, please contact me. I will be happy to submit additional material on request and discuss a possible assignment for XXXX magazine.

  I am looking forward to hearing from you.

  Sincerely yours,

  Dorothy Hall

  With the letter, she included a publicity shot of the actress Diane Keaton.

  November 6, 1969

  I won first prize at the Orange County Fair last night for the giant collage I made with photographs of Robin and Dorrie. It was one of those thrilling experiences that give me hope. Today my new business cards arrived. I’m ready to go.

  I got a letter from Diane about her appearance on Merv Griffin last week. She needs more confidence. “By the way, I saw my spot on Merv Griffin. It was horrible. I wonder why I do these things. It’s so painful to watch myself trying too hard. I didn’t get Butterflies Are Free either. Too tall and too ‘kooky’—a nice way of saying strange.”

  Diane Minus-the-Hall Keaton

  DIANE KEATON, Mom’s massive ext
ravaganza documenting my career from 1969 through 1984, is about as hard to grasp as Dad’s belief in the healing powers of PACE. The cover, wrapped in shiny silver paper with giant black letters, spelled out my new minus-Hall name. The size alone (twenty by thirty inches) presents the kind of deliberation DIANE KEATON doesn’t merit.

  Kicking it off are two ticket stubs from Play It Again, Sam, glued next to a funny-looking caricature of Woody, next to a yellow Sardi’s napkin, below several photographs of me with fellow cast members smiling in anticipation of good reviews. Then comes the four-page spread in Harper’s Bazaar that makes it crystal clear I was not the model I aspired to be. Sure, it was really “cool” to have Bill King (famous for all those jumping shots of supermodels like Lauren Hutton) take the pictures, but I look strange in midair, with my huge smile revealing the gold caps my Santa Ana dentist reassured me would last a lifetime. Headlines like DIANE’S STAR ON THE RISE or ACTRESS DIANE KEATON CAN’T BE PIGEONHOLED, with a handwritten note from Mom saying, “Barbara sent this from Cedar Rapids,” seem sort of forced. First of all, who was Barbara from Cedar Rapids? And second, who cares? The awful review of my performance at the Ice House back in 1975 is a pathetic reminder of my stint as a nightclub singer. “She may be an adequate actress, but Diane Keaton is not a singer. Her musical selections are unvaried. Miss Keaton doesn’t communicate with her audience. She uses oddly restricted facial expressions and poorly planned body gestures.”

  The headline from Orange County People stated, JACK HALL WAS RIGHT. HIS DAUGHTER DID GROW UP TO BE A MOVIE STAR.

  Jack Hall’s friends used to laugh when he said his little girl Diane would grow up to be a movie star. No one’s laughing now. Not at all shy when it comes to praising their talented daughter, Jack and his wife Muriel will proudly tell anyone, “That’s our daughter.” Although they won’t take any credit for Diane’s talent (“She did it on her own”), it’s entirely possible she inherited some of the moxie it takes to be a star from Muriel, who went back to college at 40 after raising four children and earned her degree with honors. Muriel has photographed a book jacket and an album cover for Woody Allen.

  Muriel? Please. It’s almost as if Mother closed her discerning eyes and went for bulk; even the loss of her first name didn’t stop her from including the article. Why? To be reminded she had no identity other than as Jack Hall’s wife and Diane Keaton’s mother?

  DIANE KEATON ends abruptly, with a two-page ad from the Los Angeles Times featuring photographs of Barbra Streisand, Farrah Fawcett, Liza Minnelli, Paul Newman, Burt Reynolds, John Travolta, and me smiling underneath the headline A CHANNEL 2 SPECIAL REPORT … STARDOM: DREAM OR NIGHTMARE? It was the perfect place for Mom to call it quits. Her daughter, the little girl who sang to the moon as she stood on the driveway of her parents’ Quonset hut right off Monterey Road in Highland Park, had become a movie star.

  Stardom never became a nightmare, but it wasn’t what I thought it would be. How can you think a dream? Not even Dale Carnegie could do that. As I closed DIANE KEATON, a Time magazine with “A Comic Genius: Woody Allen Comes of Age” on the cover fell out, along with a newspaper article featuring a picture of her holding on to Dad’s arm. The caption read, “Parents of actress Diane Keaton are not averse to discussing her.” The article went on to say, “Mrs. Hall, a stately, well-dressed woman who lets her husband do the talking when it comes to business, is more than glad to talk about her daughter, Diane. ‘It isn’t just Diane who is in the limelight, Jack and I are sharing in the glow too. It’s been the most exciting time of my life. Everywhere we go with Diane we’re mobbed.’ ” Mobbed? I’ve never been mobbed. Ever. Did Mother know what she was saying? Did she even say it?

  Was it worth it? Did spending so many hours cutting and pasting the story of budding actress Diane Keaton—not Hall—ever feel like a waste of time? Why was Mother so engrossed with the process of validating my life? It’s hard to know what to make of the parade of boring articles, interchangeable photographs, and pre-language quotes from me, like “Gee, I’m just so honored to even meet Betty Ford” and “Oh, yeah, sure … I loved the Martha Graham dance recital. Woody and I are both taking lessons with her company. It’s so much fun.” Didn’t Mom feel embarrassed for me? Did she think cutting pictures into smaller squares and rectangles would be a different kind of healing? Was it numbing and nice? Was it a reassuring if abstract way to reflect on the joys of the past?

  Our story, Mother’s and mine, will always and forever lie hidden in a past that can’t be untangled by looking through a parade of clippings recording the journey of a young woman who became Annie Hall.

  December 31, 1969

  I always say my life is this family, and that’s the truth. Today was no exception. Dorrie pushed all of us to get up and take a bike ride to Baskin and Robbins, just like last year. It was so much fun. It’s true when they say it’s the little things that matter.

  I have assessed my happiness ratio and this is the result. I am totally content whenever the ones I love are happy about something little, big, insignificant, whatever. I just don’t think anyone could possibly have the same wonderful, intense, compelling feelings that I have for this family of mine.

  Jack asked me if it was a good day—the last one of the year—and I have to say it was. We tried to get tickets to see True Grit but couldn’t, so Jack, Randy, Robin, Dorrie, and I went out to eat at Marsé Restaurant and then came home to watch Dick Clark ring the New Year in. “1969 was a BIG year, huh, Dad?” “Sure, Dorrie, sure.” I hope the same will be said of 1970.

  5

  THE LIST

  Jane Fonda. Ally Sheedy. Joan Rivers. Paula Abdul. Lindsay Lohan. Sally Field. Princess Diana. Anne Sexton. Karen Carpenter. Anna Freud. Mariel Hemingway. Audrey Hepburn. Portia de Rossi. Meredith Vieira. Victoria Beckham. Kelly Clarkson. Felicity Huffman. Mary Kate Olsen. Catherine Oxenberg. Sharon Osbourne.

  Sally Field and I are the same age. We’re both actresses. We live and work in Los Angeles. That’s where the similarities end, or so I thought. I’ve met Joan Rivers, Lindsay Lohan, Felicity Huffman, and even Audrey Hepburn. It didn’t seem like we had much in common. I remember when Meredith Vieira interviewed me for The View. She was the kind of assured professional I admired. It’s hard to believe we suffered from a mutual obsession. How is it possible I share a mutual past with Mary Kate Olsen, a person forty years younger and $100 million richer? Jane Fonda? The Jane Fonda? Come on. When I was introduced to Victoria Beckham at a party Katie Holmes gave in her honor, I couldn’t begin to imagine who she was or the world she moved in. And yet each and every woman whose name is listed above shared the same secret. The difference? I chose to keep it to myself until now.

  More

  Looking inside the brown paper bag only to find a green apple, six pennies, four cherry suckers, and one Tootsie Roll Pop was way too disappointing. Why no Snickers or 3 Musketeers? With next to nothing to show for ringing neighborhood doorbells, shouting “Trick or treat!” in a gypsy costume, I worked the Randy front and conned him out of his candy by promising he could sleep in the top bunk for a week.

  The next night I snuck into the kitchen while Mom and Dad were watching Milton Berle on TV. Just as I was about to snatch a handful of Hydrox cookies, I heard Dad’s voice. “Diane?” Many tears later, I tiptoed to the hideout where I’d stuffed Randy’s Halloween candy and ate the remains. No one found out.

  You have to understand, Mom rarely bought brand names like Hydrox. Her budget did not include Hostess Twinkies, 7Up, Frosted Flakes, or, my favorite, Challenge Butter. Dinner, for example, was a generic affair. We ate a lot of meat loaf, spaghetti, hamburger patties with catsup, and casseroles—way too many casseroles. For dessert it was usually three oatmeal cookies apiece. Dad helped himself to as many as he wanted. Night after night I watched with envy as he ate his fill. Extra treats came at the beginning of the week. For instance, on Monday Mom gave me a whole piece of Wrigley’s Doublemint gum. On Wednesday the tight allocation of resources forced her
to hand out half a piece. By Saturday it was a measly quarter. I continued to twist Randy’s arm, but the rewards were hardly worth it. My first real success came at Willard Junior High School, where I used my personality to convince several friends in dumbbell English to fund my need for Refresho ice cream bars and Fifty 50s.

  Magazines, one of my ancillary fixations, fit neatly into the mix, starting with McCall’s, a fifties version of Martha Stewart Living. I had no interest in the fun activities on the back page for little girls. No, what I liked were the color pictures of smiling women selling Campbell’s soup and Pond’s face cream. They were pretty, and best of all they never changed. That was neat. Life magazine was neat too, because it told stories with photographs, but what really knocked my socks off was the first time I saw Miss Audrey Hepburn on the cover. She wasn’t pretty. She was beautiful. In fact, she was perfect. I began to notice disturbing things about my eleven-year-old body. It was too big in the bathtub. I didn’t like that. And people in real life weren’t always attractive, even Mom. That was concerning. But, worst of all, I began to understand the troubling concept of comparison. When I compared myself to Audrey Hepburn, something was off. My features were not symmetrical. I wasn’t pretty. At best, I was an affable-looking thing. Yuck. As I got older, it became painfully clear my appearance would always be a work in progress. I began to ponder solutions in the rearview mirror of our station wagon. The right side of my face was better than the left. Okay, not bad. If I kept my mouth slightly parted, I looked vulnerable. Vulnerable was good. By applying these new methods I was beautiful—well, not beautiful, pretty. Not really pretty, but attractive, definitely attractive. Along the way, I discovered fashion magazines like Mademoiselle and Vogue. They taught me to focus on my body as well as my face. I began to dress in a sixties version of hip. I wore miniskirts with white boots, and glittery box-shaped dresses, and even swinging ready-steady-go pantsuits. I painted my eyes with black liquid eyeliner, like Elizabeth Taylor in Cleopatra. I glued on false eyelashes and kept ratting my hair as if it would compensate for my failing face. I don’t know why I thought I could pull off perfection—obviously it was absurd—but I kept trying.