Щоденник Емми Томпсон про зйомки “Розум і почуття”, Частина 1 | Emma Thompson’s Diary on the Filming of “Sense and Sensibility,” Part 1

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Bringing Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility to the screen has been a labor of love. Vividly described by the producer, Lindsay Doran, in her Introduction, the process has taken fifteen years to come to fruition. In Emma Thompson, Doran found her ideal scriptwriter, since Emma Thompson already had a lifelong passion for the novels of Jane Austen and a natural gift for writing, which Doran first recognized when she caught reruns of a comic British television series that Thompson had written. With characteristic rigor and determination, Emma Thompson set about the job, between acting in many films and picking up an Academy Award en route. The script took her five years to complete. It is unusual for an actress to write a screenplay. It is even more unusual that she should also publish a detailed domestic account of the making of the film in which she played a leading role. Directed by Ang Lee, the Columbia Pictures film also stars Alan Rickman, Kate Winslet and Hugh Grant. Emma Thompson’s diaries, which take us from preproduction to the wrap party, answer the questions everyone asks about filmmaking, and provide a clear and often hilarious picture of what it is really like to be part of a film crew living the kind of intense communal life found on board large sailing ships, and yet just as subject to weather, digestive tracts and moods. This rare perspective, together with sumptuous photographs, makes this an irresistible book for all those interested in movies and the making of a great film.

won an Academy Award for Best Actress in 1992 for her portrayal of Margaret Schlegel in Howards End and was nominated twice in 1993 for her leading role in The Remains of the Day and her supporting role in In the Name of the Father. Sense and Sensibility is her first screenplay. Before graduating from Cambridge University in 1982 with a degree in English Literature, Thompson acted with Cambridge’s first all-female revue Woman s Hour, which she co-wrote, co-produced and co-directed. Her additional film credits include Harrington, Junior, Much Ado About Nothing, Henry V, Dead Again, Peter’s Friends, and Impromptu. This is her first book.

The DIARIES

P R E A M B L E

Production meeting in Oxford Street on a raw wintry morning on Monday 15 January 1995. Lindsay Doran (producer), James Schamus (co-producer), Ang Lee (director) and I had met previously this month to discuss the latest draft of the script, which is what we’re all here to work through. Tony Clarkson (locations manager) and Laurie Borg (co-producer) already know one another but this is the first time the core personnel of the shoot have met to prepare. Lindsay goes round the table and introduces everyone — making it clear that I am present in the capacity of writer rather than actress, therefore no one has to be too nice to me. It’s 9 a.m. and everyone looks a bit done in. Except Ang, who brings self-contained calm wherever he goes. Just looking at him makes me feel frazzled in comparison, as though all my hair’s standing on end. Our first point of discussion is the hunt (during which, in this version, we witness the accident that kills Mr Dashwood). Where do we get a hunt? It seems to require at least twenty-five male stunt riders – or we hire a real hunt, like the Beaufort which was used on The Remains of the Day. Ang wants villagers and labourers watching and to see the fox being chased. My idea is to start the film with an image of the vixen locked out of her lair which has been plugged up. Her terror as she’s pursued across the country. This is a big deal. It means training a fox from birth or dressing up a dog to look like a fox. Or hiring David Attenborough, who probably knows a few foxes well enough to ask a favour. Laurie finally says it’s impossible. What Ang wants next is even more expensive: he’s desperate for a kitchen scene in Norland Park (home to the Dashwoods – to be filmed at Saltram House in Devon) which would show the entire staff of Norland preparing a huge meal. I want a bleeding Mr Dashwood to be brought in through the kitchen door and laid on the table surrounded by all the raw joints of meat. As Ang and I enthuse about symbolism, Laurie gently reminds us of expense. These are costly scenes and the film hasn’t even started. I look around the table and realise – perhaps for the first time – that it’s actually going to happen. After five years’ work on the script (albeit intermittent), the sense of released energy is palpable. There are budgets, an office and several real people here. I glaze over for a second, in shock. Pulled out of reverie by James asking, yet again, what physical activities can be found for Elinor and Marianne. Painting, sewing, embroidering, writing letters, pressing leaves, it’s all depressingly girlie. Chin-ups, I suggest, but promise to think further. We start to work through the entire script, adding, subtracting, bargaining, negotiating, trying to save money wherever we can. We get to the ballroom sequence and I suggest that we create several vignettes that occur in the background — a rich old rake forcing his attentions on a young girl whose greedy father affects not to notice, a fat matriarch surrounded by sycophantic cousins – a Cruikshankian taste of nineteenth-century greed and hypocrisy. More expensive than simply filling the room with extras but much more interesting. Laurie’s eyes roll but he agrees that it’s worth the effort and money. I have a notion that it might be nice to see Colonel Brandon tickling trout – something to draw Marianne to him. Tickling trout is a mysterious old country method of catching trout; you tickle their tummies and when they’re relaxed you whip them out of the water. I ask Laurie if it’s possible to get trained fish. Lindsay says this is how we know I’ve never produced a movie. She tells us that two of her friends had read the script and thought I’d invented the pregnancy of Brandon’s family ward for shock value. It’s surprising to find such events in Austen, but after all, how many people know that there’s a duel in Sense and Sensibility} When Lindsay asked me to adapt the novel I thought that Emma or Persuasion would have been better. In fact there’s more action in S & S than I’d remembered and its elements translate to drama very effectively. We get to the end of the script by 3.20 p.m. and Lindsay says, ‘Can we afford the movie we just described?’ It’s a long, complex script and the budget is pushed to the limit. James is most worried about the number of shooting days. Doesn’t seem enough. (In the event, our fifty-eight days stretched to sixty-five.) Wander out into Oxford Street slightly dazed. ‘See you in April,’ I say to Laurie. Now everyone goes their separate ways to continue prep. Ang and James return to New York and work on budget and schedule from there. Lindsay returns to LA to produce and I go to West Hampstead and switch the computer on. Another draft . . .

I spend the rest of January in tears and a black dressing gown. During February and March I revise the script constantly but the basic structure remains the same. Half a dozen new drafts hit the presses but by 2 April we settle on the final shooting draft. The hunt and kitchen scenes discussed at the January production meeting have both been cut due to budget and schedule constraints. In February, Ang, James and Lindsay return and the casting process begins. We start with Fanny. Everyone we see captures perfectly the balance of wifely concern and vicious self-interest. Ang says at the end of one day, ‘This is a nation of Fannys.’ It rings horribly true. Some characters are far more elusive, notably Lucy Steele and Willoughby, perhaps because of their hidden motives. Gemma Jones, Kate Winslet and Elizabeth Spriggs are so immediately Mrs Dashwood, Marianne and Mrs Jennings that we find it difficult to imagine anyone else in the roles. I’m excited about the fact that five of the actors I prevailed upon to perform a reading of an early draft last year are all hired by Ang: Hugh Grant (Edward), Robert Hardy (SirJohn), Harriet Walter (Fanny), Imelda Staunton (Charlotte Palmer) and Hugh Laurie (Mr Palmer). Also that Hugh Grant, for whom I wrote Edward, has agreed to do it despite having become after Four Weddings the most famous man in the world. It’s odd to be on the other side of the casting process. Even though Michelle Guish, the casting director, makes the circumstances as relaxed as possible, I am uncomfortably aware of how difficult it is for an actor to walk into a small room full of people staring at them. Lindsay is quite shy, James chats a bit, Ang seldom says anything at all and I make a lot of irrelevant noise whenever there’s a long silence. Ang’s principal criteria are unexpected. Physiognomy matters a great deal to him. Not whether a person is good-looking but the spaces between their lower lip and chin and between the bridge of the nose and forehead. Praxitelean proportions, virtually. After a first meeting with an actor there’s a second during which we read scenes. I get the opportunity to play all the other roles and have a minor success with Sir John. Then a third when the scenes are put on video. Ang is not familiar with many British actors so we see people time and again until he’s certain of what he wants. ‘Can everyone in England act?’ he says after a particularly engaging afternoon. Lindsay and I think about this one for quite some time before deciding that probably the answer is yes. Ang presents a collection of intriguing contradictions. He does t’ai chi but his shoulders are constantly bowed, he meditates and smokes (not at the same time as far as I know), he hasn’t an ounce of fat on him but eats everything going, especially buns. When I cooked roast beef for him he ate all the Yorkshire puddings — about eleven. He’s forty years old and looks thirty. As each role gets cast, the fact of the shoot becomes increasingly concrete. I rewrite scenes with the actors in my head. At the end of March I go away for two weeks, try to forget about the script and think about Elinor. This diary begins on the first day of rehearsals.

F R I D A Y 7 A P R I L : Shepperton Studios house the production offices and rehearsal rooms. We are working on one of the smaller stages where, last year, we filmed some interiors for Carrington. Rehearsals with Gemma and Kate. Both surprised to find that Ang begins with meditation and exercises – this is not usual. We sit on cushions and breathe. We massage each other’s pressure points. It’s very painful. Loud screams, particularly from Winslet. I’m still doing rewrites in the evenings – small points to do with location and honing dialogue. There’s always something. We’re asked to do written homework for Ang. This is also unusual, he wants character studies and sets a list of questions, mostly addressing background and ‘inner life’. Inner life is very important to him. Some actors react well to this, some don’t. But we all do it. Imogen Stubbs (Lucy Steele) wins prize for best effort in the form of a letter to Elinor from Lucy some years after their respective marriages (see Appendices). Before casting began I remember saying to Ang that nothing mattered more than that every actor be funny. Very witty cast. Our session with Jane Gibson (movement duenna and expert on all manners historical) is both revealing and rewarding. We learn the root and meaning of the bows and curtsies — or reverences, as Jane calls them. As you enter a room you ‘cast a gladdened eye’ about you. Beautiful phrase. It has boiled down over the centuries to mean a come-on. I remember my father once saying in a restaurant where I was flirting outrageously with one of the waiters, ‘Stop giving that young man the glad eye.’ The bow is the gift of the head and heart. The curtsy (which is of course a bastardisation of the word ‘courtesy’) a lowering in status for a moment, followed by recovery. She speaks of the simplicity and grace of the time, the lack of archness. The muscularity of their physique, the strength beneath the ease of movement. She reminds us that unmarried women would not necessarily have known about the mechanics of sex. We search for a centre of gravity. Everyone suddenly feels clumsy and ungainly. As Jane says, we don’t know how to behave any more. Hugh Grant breezes in after last night’s premiere of An Awfully Big Adventure, in Timberland boots and specs, a blue shirt. Repellently gorgeous, why did we cast him? He’s much prettier than I am. It is Ang’s first rehearsal with Hugh. He admits to being nervous – they both light up cigarettes. I watch, smugly non-smoking, but am soon to return to my old habit of rolling up my own. Hugh: ‘The moral of film-making in Britain is that you will be fucked by the weather.’ Ang says it’s the only thing worrying him. His sang-froid is extraordinary. I think I must take up t’ai chi.

Cloudy. We shoot make-up and hair tests. My hair looks too red, Kate’s make-up not quite right. We shoot more tests and solve the problems. Libby Barr, continuity (Scottish, sparky, vast collection of outré earrings), clanks away on an ancient typewriter. We work on with Jane Gibson. She’s deliciously fierce with us. My concave chest is expanding outwards little by little.

MONDAY 1 0 A P R I L : Writing endless additional dialogue. This is to cover entrances and exits or wherever it’s necessary for background chit-chat. Difficult for actors to extemporise in nineteenth-century English. Except for Robert Hardy and Elizabeth Spriggs, who speak that way anyway. Jane reminds us that God is in his heaven, the monarch on his throne and the pelvis firmly beneath the ribcage. Apparently rock and roll liberated the pelvis and it hasn’t been the same since. We all stand about like parboiled spaghetti being straightened out. I’ve covered the telly up, hidden the radio and cancelled all the newspapers. Hello, 1811.

T U E S D A Y 1 1 A P R I L : No one can sleep for excitement. Costume designers John Bright and Jenny Beavan wish they had three more weeks but have done truly great work. The shapes and colours are inimitable. Lindsay’s already in Plymouth frantically trying to cut the script. It’s still too long. The art department object to us bathing Margaret in the parlour. Apparently they always used a kitchen or bedroom in the nineteenth century. Perhaps the Dashwoods are different, I suggest, unhelpfully. Start to pack for ten weeks.

T H U R S D A Y 1 3 A P R I L : Riding side-saddle is bizarre. Lesson with Debbie Kaye, who is in charge of training the actors to ride the horses and providing the carriages — everything to do with the transport of the times. It’s a huge responsibility and great to find that it’s a woman’s. Quite unusual in this country. She put me on Small George, who was a bit skittish. The saddle has two leather protuberances. You wrap your legs around and hold on tight. Very good for the thighs. I wobble about, trying to be brave.

M O N D A Y 1 7 A P R I L : Our hotel, Alston Country House in Devon, is very grand and comfortable. We’re here for six weeks to shoot the entire Barton Cottage and Norland Park sections and one interior scene in Mrs Jennings’s London house. I’m in the top of the building, between eaves, rain and wind howling. No duvets but oldfashioned sheets and blankets and good tomato soup. England. Hugh Grant arrives tomorrow but I’ve nicked the prettiest room. Very low ceiling, so can’t do Reebok stepping without knocking myself out. Kate arrived looking slightly wild. Said her solo sessions with Ang had reduced her to a squashy bit of cotton wool. She’s practising the piano on a keyboard in her room. James Schamus and family are here. I gave their small child an Easter egg. Quick dinner with them and Ang and his wife Jane who’s visiting with the children for a while. We talked about her work as a microbiologist and the behaviour of the epithingalingie under the influence of cholesterol. She’s fascinated by cholesterol. Says it’s very beautiful: bright yellow. She says Ang is wholly uninterested. He has no idea what she does. I check this out for myself. ‘What does Jane do?’ I ask. ‘Science,’ he says vaguely. Laurie Borg turned up, a wild look in his eye. His girlfriend had left early because he’s not interested in anything but getting Sense and Sensibility started. We’re all at it . . . Long psychological investigations of character over dinner. Why does Morag (Ross, make-up designer) always wear black? Laurie thinks she’s very spiritual. We all think Lindsay needs to work less hard. James finds the National Trust rather suspicious of us all. He’s had to sign a contract – otherwise they would not have allowed us to start rigging at Saltram tomorrow. Which would mean no lights and therefore no shooting. I’m trying to adjust to new home life and family. Quite calm under circumstances. My nails and cuticles, however, are bitten to buggery. Kate and I at dinner revert to girlieness thus: ‘Oh no no no I’m not eating, oh all right just a starter then, ooh that looks good, can I taste it, give it here then, are you going to finish that? christ no of course I can’t have pudding bring four spoons, just an inch then, just to relax me, no don’t take the bottle away it’s a waste definitely no coffee do you have decaf?’ etc. It’s pathetic. I’m thirty-six and ashamed of myself. My bathroom looks like the cosmetics department at Harvey Nicks. Aromatherapy oils mostly, which I never use. Tranquillity. Harmony. Anti-depression. Quiet time. Deep relax. Anti-stress. There’s a shower attachment on the bath that does not bode well. Have invested in a ghetto blaster. Bunged on Handel’s Messiah until I got depressed. Bed with the script, Austen’s letters, a sore back and wind. Inside and out.

T U E S D A Y 1 8 A P R I L : Slept like the dead. Seared mouth on very hot porridge at breakfast with Lindsay. We discussed the ‘novelisation’ question. This is where the studio pay someone to novelise my script and sell it as Sense and Sensibility. I’ve said if this happens I will hang myself. Revolting notion. Beyond revolting. Lindsay said that the executive she had discussed it with had said ‘as a human being I agree with you – but . . .’ I laughed until my porridge was cool enough to swallow.

Good-luck flowers arrived at home from Danny de Vito and Jim Sheridan. There’s class for you. My mother has filched them. Sun’s out. Off to get my roots dyed. Party tonight for the cast and crew to say hello. Yacht Club in Plymouth. I have no desire whatsoever to go but it’s a good idea. Kate looks a bit white. The bravest of the brave, that girl. I can’t imagine what sort of a state I would have been in at nineteen with the prospect of such a huge role in front of me. She is energised and open, realistic, intelligent and tremendous fun. Bought herbal teas – anti-stress, relax, quiet time, deep sleep etc. Did a work-out, bent double. Somewhat foxed by my new music machine can’t work out how to rewind tape. Nineteenth century clearly encroaching faster than I think. 9.30 p.m. Back from party. Crew were rigging and didn’t really show till 8.30. But we tarted about and said hello to a few folk and they all seem great. Hugh Grant arrived. Slammed into a pint of bitter and some chicken goujons like nobody’s business. I had a glass of water and tried to keep my hands off the scampi. Morag showed me an eye-shadow container she’d bought for me. ‘It’s cosmic,’ she said. I opened the lid and lo and behold, there was an Austen quotation: ‘It was a delightful visit, perfect in being much too short.’ A happy coincidence. I’m tired and must to bed.

W E D N E S D A Y 1 9 A P R I L : Was up at six to a peerless sky and frost. Sunken roads are beautiful to behold and Devon lambs remarkably handsome. Arrived for the opening ‘Big Luck’ ceremony – a Buddhist ritual Ang observes at the beginning of every film. He had set up a trestle table with large bowls of rice, two gongs, incense sticks, oranges (for luck and happiness), apples (for safe, smooth shooting), a bouquet of large redpetalled flowers (for success) and an incongruous pineapple (for prosperity). Everyone lit a stick of incense, bowed in unison to the four corners of the compass and offered a prayer to the god of their choice. The camera was brought in on the dolly (which is a small wheeled platform on which the camera, operator and focus-puller sit) for a blessing, and a few feet of film were rolled. Ang struck the gongs, we all cheered and planted incense in the rice bowls. I cried. Al Watson, one of the electricians (or ‘sparks’), passed Ang and said, ‘Is this going to happen every day, guv?’ Rehearsals begin for Kate and Gemma’s first scene – a difficult one to start with, very intimate and full of grief. They talk about Elinor’s growing attachment to Edward and in her responses Marianne reveals her romantic sensibilities and sets up the image of her ideal man. We’re also aware that behind Mrs Dashwood’s equally romantic visions is a harder-edged reality – she must get her daughters married for their financial and social security. To find the balance between profound familiarity and informing the audience about character is hard. I’m very concerned not to allow ourselves any false affection – the sentimentalised ‘close’ family who are always caressing each other. I don’t think they exist. Neither Gemma nor Kate is sentimentalist, but still, it’s always something to watch out for. Margaret’s tree-house is palatial. Not quite what I had in mind. Fabulous thing. The National Trust volunteers hover, watching us all like hawks. The welcome to Saltram was not the warmest. ‘This house is much older than any of you and deserves your respect.’ We all feel like a group of disreputable roadies. Clearly, they expect us to lay waste to the place. It is alarming, however, to see the sheer numbers of a film crew (about one hundred and twenty people) and the weight of equipment. The expressions on the faces of the volunteers veer between a diffident shyness and nervous terror as another jack-booted bruiser comes clanking in with large bits of metal that miss the precious mouldings by a whisker. The sparks are, however, very respectful. I notice one tall blond, unreasonably handsome in an Aryan way, and poke Al Watson between the ribs. ‘Who’s that}9 I ask. ‘Paul Kemp,’ he says. ‘Yeah, I know. It’s all his own, that hair, not dyed. We tease him something rotten, poor lad.’ ‘Well, it’s always nice to have someone beautiful to look at,’ I murmur. ‘Not good enough for you, am I?’ says Al, who then presses some of his wife’s excellent bread pudding into my grasp. Al worked on Carrington last year. It’s a small world. Saltram is a wonderful house – but, like all that has been preserved and not used, has an empty atmosphere. I dare say we will soon see to that . . . Chris Newman (the first assistant director, who controls the set) and I have been on five films together (Much Ado, Howards End, Peter’s Friends, Remains of the Day and this) and he has always looked the same. A touch of Indiana Jones, felt trilby, khaki, long blond hair, bearded, with a low, authoritative voice. Bernie Bellew is the second assistant director, who coordinates everything from the ‘base’ and is responsible for getting the actors to the set on time. Base comprises actors’ trailers, hair and make-up buses, catering bus, toilets, construction and electrical vehicles, generators and so forth. Looks like backstage at a fairground. Bernie is a young, gentle man with blue eyes and hair that was already greying when I first met him on The Tall Guy in 1988. Ben Howarth is our third AD. Tall, with a faraway look that belies his efficiency. He chases us all up and is constantly on the move as he listens to Bernie’s instructions on his earpiece. Rebecca (Becca) Tucker, the runner, is quintessentially English-rose with a sweetness of character to match and a firm hand. Runner is a good job description – she does everything at speed.

Three scenes down. Gemma and Kate triumphed and shook a lot all over. Nerve-wracking to do the first shot on anything. Hugh and I did Edward and Elinor talking and walking and got cold. The sun shone, everyone divested themselves of puffa-jackets. Then it hailed. I wondered about the Big Luck ceremony a bit after that, but Ang seemed quite pleased to have cloud. Paparazzi arrived for Hugh. We had to stand under a tree and smile for them. Photographer: ‘Hugh, could you look less – um – ‘ Hugh: ‘Pained?’ My first director’s note (criticism) from Ang: ‘Very dull.’ A bit of a blow. Then: ‘Don’t look so old,’ which didn’t help. But we’ve started. We’re off. He was cock-a-hoop by the end of the day and no wonder since there were hardly any disasters. Lots of public watching, quietly interested. Home 8 p.m. It took me two hours to remove make-up, have bath, make calls, eat a pear and light some relaxing candles. ‘Night-time’ teabags and anti-stress oil in the bath. None of it works; I’m zinging.

T H U R S D A Y 2 0 A P R I L : Up 7 a.m. after a fractured night’s sleep. Very cold. Found two lambs in the road, tried to get them back to their mother and failed horribly. Left them bleating ferociously at us from the middle of a bush. Porridge, toast and a large pot of tea during make-up. Sore hairpins, very long lighting job. Edward finds Elinor crying for her dead father, offers her his handkerchief and their love story commences. Ang very anxious that we think about what we want to do. I’m very anxious not to do anything and certainly not to think about it. I’ve ink everywhere from practising with quills. Kate very calm and happier today, I think, now she’s up and running. Indoors, thank God, all day.

The morning flew by with Hugh, who is as great an actor as I’ve always thought. So light and yet very much felt. He’s made Edward rather troubled and halting, almost a stammerer. It’s particularly good because it illustrates how relaxed he feels with Elinor, with whom he can be both funny and fluent. Harriet (Walter) has chosen a dog for Fanny. It’s pointy and shakes all the time. In her close-up we all had to wave cake at it to stop it staring into the camera or at its owner. Didn’t faze Hat for one second, but the dog thought we were mad. I’ve learned that Hugh and I caused Ang great suffering the other day. He has never had any actor question anything before. In Taiwan the director holds complete sway. He speaks and everyone obeys. Here, actors always ask questions and make suggestions. In this instance he’d designed a particular shot where Elinor and Edward walk through the gardens at Norland talking. Hugh and I were concerned about shooting (or ‘covering’) their expressions as there’s so little time in which to see these people fall in love and the shot seemed too far off to capture them. In the event his idea was much better than ours, but that we should have had an idea at all came as a genuine shock and he was deeply hurt and confused. Better today, after Lindsay and James explained that these were perfectly normal working methods. We talked and I think he feels easier. I feel terrible – as though I’ve ruined Ang’s first day by not being sensitive enough to his situation. It must have been terrifying – new actors, new crew, new country and then us sticking our oars in. Chastening to realise yet again how much I have to learn about being too impatient and overwhelming. Bed in a heap of rubble.

F R I D A Y 2 1 A P R I L : Not much sleep. Demonised myself to such an extent last night I half expected to rise with two small horns. Wrote to Ang last night – this culture shock thing works both ways, it seems. Ang
gave me a hug and said he was so touched by my letter he couldn’t sleep. So we’re all on course again but I am being cautious with my suggestions. I’m appalled to find that Emilie François (Margaret), who is twelve, is keen to ‘lose a few kilos’. Does all that horror really start so young these days? I snorted a lot and forced a Jaffa Cake down her. I’m freezing. No dramas. Lindsay and James also suffering slight culture shock and a bit frustrated by the pace of things. Ang expects the ADs to be the tough ones and they expect him to be the tough one. So no one’s tough and things move slowly. The beginning of a film is like watching a huge newborn centipede trying to get up on its hundred legs and go for a walk. Keeps tripping up until it’s worked out how to coordinate. Any film will take two to three weeks to get into its stride — some never do. I think the key is good communications.

A care package arrived from Columbia Pictures: dressing gown, slippers, bath-pillow, blanket. A care package. Half expected a Zimmer frame (one of those balancing frames you get given when you’re old and wobbly). Very kind. Caring, even. Roast beef and a square of chocolate for lunch. Very yang. I keep tripping over my frock and swearing. 9 p.m. Alston Hall. Back after completing the day’s work, no dramas. Terribly wound up. Adrenalin flowing. Difficult to sleep even after such long days. The hours vary – never less than twelve; today, fifteen. Ang very keen on the yin and yang of Sense and Sensibility. His sensibility very unsentimental, like Austen’s. They’re remarkably connected. She’d be astonished. Sometimes there are eight or more National Trust volunteers in the room when we shoot, all in varying states of suspicion. The fire alarm went off. Fire engines came racing; we all rushed out on the gravel drive, everyone thinking it was us. In fact, one of the elderly residents of Saltram had left a pan on the oven in her flat. Apparently this happens all the time. The tenant in question is appearing as an extra – playing one of the cooks. Huge spot on my cheek. Security guards for Hugh, poor soul. Ah, what it is to be a matinee idol and followed around by nutters.

S A T U R D A Y 2 2 A P R I L : Cannot seem to sleep these days. Woke at 1 a.m. convinced it was time to get up. Back to bed with a scowl, a plum and Her Letters. Frantic dreams once I finally slept. The hotel clearly switches central heating on late at weekends. Freezing at 6.30 a.m. and no hot water. 10.30 a.m. Pissing down with rain and very cold, which makes everyone depressed. Bought large bag of sweets which we all sucked noisily.

S U N D A Y 2 3 A P R I L : 1 a.m. Finally about to go to bed after hugely full and successful day. We’ve finished this period at Saltram without having dropped (filmspeak for having failed to cover something) a scene. A couple of shots had to go, but I don’t think they’ll be necessary. Ang very relieved. Mick Coulter (director of photography – Glaswegian, witty, perfectionist) and Phil Sindall (camera operator – shy, sensitive, patient) are pleased. It is an extraordinary achievement on all their parts, given the exigencies of the location. We’ll return here in a few days and finish the Norland section. Woke last night and sobbed for some reason. Relief, possibly. Harriet and Gemma delivered excellent acting every time in diningroom scene. Theatrical training . . . Hugh Grant bought us all drinks. We sat in the bar and played daft games – Lindsay is on excellent form. Rained all day. We froze.

Woke 7.30 after five hours, wrecked. Ate all day and sat in sun. We’re all bright pink. Morag will kill me. Put pyjamas into laundry after only a week’s wear and felt profligate.

M O N D A Y 2 4 A P R I L : New location: the front room of Mrs Jennings’s London house is being shot on the Flete Estate, in the owner’s home. The rest of Mrs Jennings’s house will be shot in Salisbury. Most locations on film are a composite of several buildings – it’s rare to find everything you need in one place, and Ang is very particular about the dimensions, colour and light in a room. Lunchtime. Long rehearsal with Imogen Stubbs as Lucy, in the scene where Edward comes in and finds her with Elinor. There are eighteen setups. (Each shot is referred to as a set-up. We tend to shoot anything up to ten takes on every set-up. The number of the take is written on the clapperboard, or ‘slate’, and sometimes a shot will be called a slate.) It will take two days. Hugh won his Bafta for Four Weddings and was good in the scene. Bastard. 8.30 p.m. Home to Alston Hall. Raining. Soup, glass of wine. Very difficult scene and all a little tired but good concentration nonetheless. Four people in a room, each with entirely different motives and reactions to the same situation, requires a lot of coverage. Ang’s taken to requesting what he calls ‘smirks’. ‘Endearing smirk, please’ – which I find pretty tricky. ‘Try rigorous smirk’ – even trickier. I give it a go but end up going purple with the effort. Very little appetite.

T U E S D A Y 2 5 A P R I L : Grey 6 a.m. We continue the scene. It’s Hugh’s close-up. After several takes, Ang said to Hugh, ‘Now do it like a bad actor.’ Hugh: ‘That was the one I just did.’

Ang holds his small hand to his face when anxious, a small crease on his brow. Chris Newman turns forty. We all jeer. Corset has crushed my stomach to pulp. Studio happy with dailies (or ‘rushes’) – developed film which the directors, producers and sundry others watch at the end of the day. This is also rushed to the States so that all the executives responsible can check they’re not throwing their money away. . . Sometimes actors watch rushes, if they’re allowed by the director. Ang doesn’t wish it. It makes no difference to me because I never watch them. The only time I did was on The Fortunes of War in 1987-1 wanted to resign, leave a note of apology and then kill myself. I walk to work. Magic. Pheasants, cows, horizons. Fruit salad and toast, chocolate biscuit at eleven, bean and lentil curry, peas, spinach and rice, apple crumble and custard at lunch, three sandwiches at tea, no dinner – appetite clearly restored. Hugh languid. I told him he had the stamina of a whelk. Felt we might all have done rather ‘period’ acting today. Most confused. But we finished the scene, a minor miracle. You don’t expect to get nine set-ups in a day as each one requires a re-light. This is when the sparks take over the set and move lights about and the actors go away and gossip. It can take anything up to three hours. Mick and Phil a bit grey about the gills.

W E D N E S D A Y 2 6 A P R I L : Finished at Flete with Elinor offering Edward the living at Delaford courtesy of Colonel Brandon. Very moving, the heartbreak beneath the courtesies, Edward’s attempt to apologise, the great unspoken love between them. I couldn’t get through the rehearsal without crying at the thought of losing someone so irrevocably . . . Did entire scene in four hours or less (five set-ups), not bad, and Hugh was great. I irritate him with all my hugs of affection but generally he’s very sweet to me. Nice to be out of that room.

It’s 3 p.m. and we’re back at Saltram. Weather changeable so it’s possible we’ll do the stables scene. Everyone knackered as dailies went on till midnight. Bit peeved, they all were. The material continues to satisfy so no problems as such. Lindsay wants more emotion, Ang wants less. Hugh wants quite a bit and I don’t know who I am any more. Ang slowly accustoming himself to the way we work – he says English crews are slower but that is because there’s more respect and the ADs don’t yell at them like they do in America. I think he likes it. We’re not allowed to touch or move any of the furniture in Saltram, which makes for amusement. Today I saw an elderly lady, one of the volunteers (who are allowed to touch the furniture), being asked whether we could move an antique bench. She pushed her handbag firmly up her shoulder, picked up the bench and tottered off on high heels, watched by six strong grips and props men all completely bemused. Bed 9 p.m. with script. Back on schedule. Two big scenes tomorrow. Getting quite nifty with a quill these days.

T H U R S D A Y 2 7 A P R I L : Slept for nine hours! Time for a real breakfast. Small George (Elinor’s horse) kept falling asleep under the lights in the stable and had to be poked regularly to keep his head up. Ang started to smoke in the stable, was advised against it twice – and ran out, arms flapping, slightly bewildered. Ang: ‘In Taiwan, directors are allowed to do exactly what they want.’ Then he giggled. Stood smoking in the rain and described how, in Taiwan, he would be followed about with chairs, ashtrays, wet towels, tea in constant attendance. We all stood about and looked at him and laughed. The hotel has a wedding tonight so we’re all off to another hotel in Plymouth for the night.

F R I D A Y 2 8 A P R I L : 6 a.m. call. I woke at 2.30 and had a darkish time. Nice easy scene this a.m. but I feel unattractive and talentless. I look like a horse with a permed fringe. Did poetryreading scene where Marianne teases Edward. Ate veg and rice. Evening in the new hotel overlooking Sainsbury’s car park. Back to the twentieth century with a vengeance. Took ages to get in with key card. Hate them. I like a proper key, which must mean something. Austen very keen on keys, I seem to remember. Hugh and I wondering if we’re any good. Kate seems very well. Independent soul. She’s taken herself off to see Little Women. This hotel is unspeakably lowering.

S A T U R D A Y 2 9 A P R I L : Very fond of hotel. Slept like a log. Up 7.30. In to work, discussed the decision to put some of the actors in a different hotel to the rest of us, bad for morale, and also a party to be given Saturday 13th, good for morale. Hugh G. says he finds the work very technical. I’m not quite sure what he means but I nod sympathetically. I feel the most appalling frump. Opened papers to find The Tall Guy and Much Ado advertised on the telly with casually rude remarks about them everywhere. Bit of a downer. Looking forward to some booze tonight and a decent meal with time to enjoy eating it. My body needs exercise but is holding up very well. No weight going on. Found Ang asleep on set, folded up like a little dolly in his chair. Nice shot of Elinor and Edward walking while being watched by Fanny and Mrs Dashwood. All in one, nice and smooth. Last day at Saltram. Was going to give the National Trust boss lady a box of chocolates but I’ve eaten them.

S U N D A Y 30 A P R I L : 12.20 a.m. Soup and booze in bar. Finished at Saltram. Huzzah. Did very bad close-up at night, which didn’t help my mood or fatigue, but Ang was philosophical. He doesn’t indulge us but is always kind when we fail. A pleasant evening. I’m lonely. 8.20 a.m. Slept heavily from one to eight. Weary but calmer from a drinking night. Bath and then a walk with Kate before lunch. Praying for good weather for the wedding. Greg Wise (Willoughby) turned up to ride, full of beans and looking gorgeous. Ruffled all our feathers a bit. 7.30 p.m. Fantastic outing, sunny drives, five courses at Gidleigh Park Hotel and skinny-dipping in the river. I’m dyeing hair with Jan (Archibald, hair designer, exceptionally good woman). Helluva week ahead. Notes from Ang for Kate have floored her but she rallies. We all got them, I remind her. Mick’s joke: What’s the difference between a pig and a grip? A pig won’t spend the entire night trying to get the grip to go to bed with it. He swears this only applies to American grips but it’s delightfully insulting either way. Richard Broome, our grip, is a perfect gentleman as far as I can tell.

M O N D A Y 1 M A Y : Frumpy, sad, old and weepy today. New location. Caravans miles away. Ang patient, radiating calm. Hugh has taken to calling him ‘the Brute’. Later: Everyone hauling their way through the day. Kissing Hugh was very lovely. Glad I invented it. Can’t rely on Austen for a snog, that’s for sure. We shoot the scene on a hump-backed bridge. Two swans float into shot as if on cue. Everyone coos. ‘Get rid of them,’ says Ang. ‘Too romantic’ Now on horses, which is a bugger. Sheep and all. Very bolshie ‘period’ sheep with horns and perms and too much wool. If they fall over, they can’t get up. Someone has to help them. Can’t be right. Ang wants sheep in every exterior shot and dogs in every interior shot. I’ve suggested we have sheep in some of the interiors as well.

Vehicles, mud, single-track roads. Impossible. Lovely weather so we are in great hopes of sun tomorrow. I feel without muscles today. Morag says we’ll get through the week and bank holiday will give everyone a break. Ang, after a particularly trying time with our flock (very quiet): ‘No more sheeps. Never again sheeps.’ 5.30 p.m. Very much cheerier. Just the strain of getting started again. Lovely scene on the horses, who were very well-behaved. That Debbie Kaye is a genius. Hugh and I did the first take completely out of character, we were concentrating so hard on riding and hitting our marks and not masking each other, etc. He turned into a champagne baron and I did something out of Sidney Sheldon. Got back on track afterwards but it just shows you. Gareth Wigan (Columbia executive and a great supporter of the project) arrived – seems very pleased. Kate and I did a quick shot on a hill. I’m in and out of hats, boots, pincurls, hairpieces, the corset and different frocks every ten minutes. Bitty day. Tomorrow will be difficult and exciting and everyone is on board. Entire cast, except Imogen and Richard Lumsden. 9.10 p.m. Bed. Imelda (Staunton) down from Inverness. Alan (Rickman) also just arrived, is in the bar with Hugh G., Mick and Kate. Incipient thrush, me. Luckily Kate had some live goat’s yoghurt which I’ve applied with middling results. Ang told us about his early sex life today. ‘So painful,’ he said, then laughed a lot.

T U E S D A Y 2 M A Y : Woke sevenish after troubled night to thick mist. Tremendous excitement at Berry Pomeroy, the exquisite village where we are to shoot the wedding. And mist. We try to convince ourselves that it’s an interesting idea to do the film’s last joyous shot of Marianne and Brandon’s wedding in thick mist. ‘It’s different,’ says Lindsay. ‘Sort of eastern,’ I add, clutching at straws.

W E D N E S D A Y 3 M A Y : Yesterday a triumph, I think, and the most perfect weather imaginable. Mist left on cue. Found Ang having breakfast – two eggs, a kipper, a scone and some raspberry jam. ‘What’s so funny?’ he said. Greg on for his first day. It’s like having a colt in the make-up caravan. Alan Rickman splendid in uniform. He and Kate look wonderful together. Finished wedding. Happiness. Two cameras, ours and a steadicam (which is strapped to the body of the operator and offers more mobility), to cover the procession – much like a pantomime walk-down, actually of Marianne and Brandon out of the church, followed by Mrs Dashwood, Margaret, Elinor and Edward (who are supposed to be already married but I can’t help feeling that it will look like a double wedding. Depressing thought – too neat) . . . Mrs Jennings and Sir John, the Palmers, John and Fanny. It’s Alan’s first day and his last appearance in the movie. Rather confusing. ‘You try it,’ he said darkly. ‘I haven’t played a scene yet and I’m already married and being followed by you lot . . .’ He’s suspicious about what everyone’s getting up to behind his back but I assure him we’re all behaving very well and trying not to go over the top. Local children appear as extras – I chat them up. They’ve all got names like Jacob, Saul and Abraham. Hugh G. naps on the church pews between takes. A peacock sits in the tree opposite the church and makes its mournful cry all day.

T H U R S D A Y 4 M A Y : Organising the party. Cheerier. Lisa Henson (head of production at Columbia) rang yesterday just as we were watching Greg drive the curricle (a high-flyer specially constructed for the shoot. Bright yellow with black wheels. Sexy contraption) at speed up a hill – very dangerous. We buggered the sound of the end of the shot by cheering. Odd watching that in the dying afternoon light as Lisa chatted from a morning Columbia in LA. Dailies are pleasing them – relief all round. Electronic Press Kit on set. I get very ratty. Don’t like being watched by another camera. It’s background material and interviews that will be used for the press later, so very necessary. Caught sun through my costume, it’s like the Bahamas. Watched all morning, didn’t get on camera. Everyone in high spirits. The girls discuss the indefensible behaviour of some men who will parade their obscenely large beer bellies without a qualm and then comment brainlessly if a woman eats a bun. Make-up trailer has become very militant. Had lunch with Alan in his trailer and talked about theatre. He was as much put off by two years in Les Liaisons Dangereuses as I was by fifteen months in Me and My Girl. I like evenings too much. I’m not sure all that repetition is good for you . . . Ang’s note to Alan: ‘More subtle: do more.’ Alan flummoxed but only momentarily. I am constantly astounded by Ang — his taste is consummate. It sometimes takes a while to work out exactly what he wants but it’s always something subtler. Try to picture myself working in Taiwan. Imagine the loneliness. Very hot today. 9.30 p.m. and I’m off to bed. Did small scene between Elinor and Mrs Dashwood. No time, no concentration, no light and all sorts of emotional difficulty. Ang spot on with his notes — we started very hot and ended up far calmer and more flowing. Vast numbers of midges bit us and moved into Gem’s wig – wind machine kept them at bay. Crows cawed like buggery – we fire a shotgun just before the take, which shuts them up for a few minutes. Who says the country is peaceful? Ang misses the motorway.

F R I D A Y 5 M A Y : 9 a.m. Just finished line-up for Hugh’s last scene (‘My heart is and always will be yours’). Peerless weather. Hugh on good form. Ang to Hugh: ‘This is your big moment. I want to see your insides.’ Hugh: ‘Ah. Right-o. No pressure then . . .’ I’m slightly tense – big crying explosion to do next. Later: Tenser than fuck now, as the morning’s work only prepared me and we’ll do my shots this afternoon. Make-up bus is like a sauna – it all melts off as you apply it. Went and requested air-conditioning units. Ang wanted a difficult shot this a.m. and Mick talked him out of it (he felt there wasn’t enough time) and then felt a bully. It’s easy to feel a terrible bully with Ang -but things are improving, I think.

Hugh G. has finished. He appears on set looking completely out of place in his boots and the shirt he was wearing on the first day of rehearsals. Til miss you,’ I say weepily. ‘No, you won’t,’ he says. He’s quite right, of course, there’s no time for all that. He walks off to say goodbye to everyone and that’s the last I see of him. 10.30 p.m. Finished at 9.30 and am rewriting tomorrow’s scene. It’s too complicated for the time we have available to shoot it, needs simplifying.

S A T U R D A Y 6 M A Y : A very ancient lot this a.m. Lots to do but Lindsay and I cut the Thomas scene a little and smoothed out the arrival of the piano so I hope we’ll get it all. Packed a bag for the weekend, determined to be off as soon as possible. The house representing Barton Cottage is also on the Flete Estate, and one of the most beautiful spots we’ve ever seen. Takes the curse off a sixday week.

S U N D A Y 7 M A Y : Gidleigh Park Hotel. Here for a weekend off. Walked to Dartmoor, among black-faced lambs and foals, climbed to the top of a large rock and met a small boy. Me: Hello. Boy: H’llo. Me: This is a good place, isn’t it? Boy: Yes. Me: If it weren’t hazy we could see for miles. Boy: On a clear day you can see way over to south Devon. Pause. Boy: That’s something you can’t buy. At which point I expected him to sprout wings and ascend to heaven. He was wearing a slightly disappointing AC/DC T-shirt, though, which brought me back to earth.

T U E S D A Y 9 M A Y : Changeable weather. It was peerless at 6.30 a.m. so we got ready to do the picnic – which meant Luci (Arrighi, production designer and the most elegant woman on earth) and the art department had to change the front of the cottage to the later, lived-in look. Removing tree-house etc. took ages. Now broken clouds have arrived, which means shooting everything in both cloud and sun. This is tricky for Mick in particular. Everyone rushes in and out with polystyrene and flags, and Terry (Edland, head electrician or ‘gaffer’) gazes at sun through his dark glass shouting, ‘Sun in about three minutes’ – so we shoot a take in cloud first, and then the sun comes out halfway through and we have to stop and start again. This happens all day. Chilly. I issue direful warnings against whimsy in these love scenes. The picnic is a wonderful Luci creation. Exquisite. It looks like it’s being given by the Rothschilds. I ask Luci to take away pies and cakes and fruits and all the glory. ‘Cheese, bread, apples and beer,’ I say. ‘They’re poor.’ Luci makes a plea for the pork pie. ‘They could have had it in the larder,’ she wails as her divine portrait is dismantled. I am unrelenting. We may have to hire cheaper sheep. They’re not close enough for their perms to register. 4.45 p.m. Rather nippy now. Lazy picnic atmosphere. Gunshots to shut the crows up. Partridges squawk, swans fly flappily over the estuary. It’s noisier than the M25. Drink tea in green room. Art department busy with the interior – glorious colours, like a Dutch painting, washed out. 9.15 p.m. Home, constipated, to a glass of water and a handful of peanuts.

W E D N E S D A Y 10 M A Y : Weather now so changeable on all fronts that the call-sheet contains more options than a pizza menu. Different scenes proposed for the following conditions:

1. Bad weather (light wind)

F R I D A Y 1 2 M A Y : Bernie rang at 7.30 a.m. Sun’s out. Got to work. Omigod. Stare at wine-sodden eyes in mirror and hate myself. Willoughby arrives with Marianne. Ang said the rehearsal was too hectic – and that he’s been bitten by scenes like this before. So busy that the audience just switches off. He’s very interesting on the flow of energy in a film. Always thinks of everything in its widest context. Wild a.m. trying to work out the blocking. Kate and Greg sopping wet and brave. Set up a shot that was designed only to go to a certain point in the scene but as Ang didn’t cut we just carried on. Phil said the lens was too pushed to contain anything but Ang said he’d just been watching the story – and he hadn’t cut simply because he’d been enjoying himself. ‘Try not to get into the habit,’ said Linds, worrying about film stock and costs. Later, Ang said that he wanted the camera to watch the room, sense the change in it that a man, that sex, had brought. For Ang, the house is as important a character as the women. Bed knackered at 10 p.m. Very wet people. Very cold. Cannes looking threatened. A good day, really – but there’s so much to do. Paranoid delusions and loneliness struck at me so I must wise up and get to bed earlier.

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