That same year, I saw Annie Hall for the first time. I was lying on the floor of my grandfather's study in Gramercy Park, because it was dark and had the biggest TV screen in the house, and he wanted my first Woody Allen experience to be as close to the big-screen movie experience as possible. I got it. Well, I didn't exactly get it — all these grown-ups falling in and out of dizzy, messy, complicated love — but, I got why this was great. I'd never felt so instantly connected to a film. I wanted to run out of my grandparents' apartment and into that New York, all swingy with jazz music and magical thinking made manifest. I looked up at my grandfather and saw him laughing like I'd never heard the man laugh before. This was a formal, grandfather-clock of a grandfather, and to see him whack the arm of his chair with a fist in sheer delight as the onscreen couple whizzed across the city in a VW Beetle made me understand why people loved Woody with such reverence and passion. He made so many great things — New York, the film world, Diane Keaton — even greater under his gaze.