Column: On Diane Keaton, classic cinema and a football helmet

I may not have the quote word-for-word perfect, but you’ll certainly agree the gist is impossible to misinterpret.

It went something like this:

“Did you know that if you’re 65 or older and you take a fall, there’s a 50% chance that you’ll be dead within a year?”

How’s that for a bad trip?

There’s nothing wrong, essentially, with providing useful information in a public forum — a classroom, for example, or a court of law, even a city council meeting — but all I was doing was trying to watch “Annie Hall” on YouTube.

I’d been wanting to revisit the film since hearing Diane Keaton, who won an Oscar for her performance in the title role, had died at the age of 79. She was always one of my favorite actresses, and her work in “Reds,” “Looking for Mr. Goodbar” and the first two “Godfather” movies was beyond impressive.

But “Annie Hall,” released in 1977, was her tour de force, her defining performance, and it was free, which appealed to me.

Viewers were alerted to the fact there’d be occasional commercial interruptions, and I was more than willing to deal with that internet reality, but that first intrusion really soured my mood.

So I just stopped the whole thing before it really got started.

Besides, I know most of it by heart: the lobster scene, her “la-di-dah” interjections and, most importantly, her iconic performance as Woody Allen’s girlfriend, one with a mind of her own.

I mean can you imagine anyone else playing Annie Hall?

Dumb question.

I’ll withdraw it.

Let’s get back to the claim about falling and imminent death.

Ever since relocating to my hometown after spending nearly 25 years in Coastal Carolina, I’ve been trying to get along with the rental house my wife and I have lived in since our big move. It’s an admittedly nice place, one she’s turned into a real home.

But there are times when I swear it’s trying to kill me.

As you probably know, the vast majority of residences constructed within easy driving distance from the ocean have no basements, owing to the fact that unlike Ohio, where there’s real dirt in which to anchor a stable foundation, Carolina is pretty much built on sand.

I first became aware of that peculiarity when I tried to mow the lawn and found myself like Sisyphus, struggling to push the mower back and forth, only to find the wheels dug in, stopped dead.

Fortunately, the landlord lent me a self-propelled machine, which at least gave me a fighting chance to overcome the landscape’s obstacles, but even that edge failed to make the task easier.

He took pity on me and began doing the job himself, not wanting me to keel over in the heat, though he did use a riding mower, which I might have eventually mastered if given the opportunity.

The point is most houses were one-level affairs, which took me out of the habit of climbing stairs. It wasn’t until we moved back home that I began to fully appreciate the difference. It’s 12 steps up and down to the basement, 15 to reach the third floor.

All of a sudden, falling became a real, tangible possibility.

But that’s not the only threat to life and limb I’ve encountered.

For one thing, nearly every room has a ceiling fan, and since I stand 6-feet-5, I worry about decapitation … or at least scalp wounds.

The basement itself tends to be on the low-clearance side, so I have to be careful when I walk from my office to the laundry area.

I’ve seriously considered investing in a football helmet so I’m protected from potential collisions with the joists and struts, but there’s a prideful part of me that resists such cowardly capitulation.

Even though we’re basking in the lovely glow of Indian Summer, I know it won’t be long until the front steps, the driveway, the back patio and the sidewalk will be covered in a sheet of ice, making every venture into the outside world very risky business.

I’m reminded of William Hurt’s warning in “The Big Chill.”

“Wise up, folks,” he says, jolting the film’s camaraderie. “We’re all alone out there, and tomorrow, we’re going out there again.”

And now, to bring it back to Diane Keaton, consider this quotation:

“You’re incapable of enjoying life. You know that?” Annie Hall admonishes Alvy Singer. “You’re like this island unto yourself.”

Oh, well, la-di-dah.

She wasn’t talking to me.

Or was she?

Mike Dewey can be reached at Carolinamiked@aol.com or 1317 Troy Road, Ashland, OH 44805. He invites you to join him on his Facebook page, where winter will be delayed as long as possible.