Emma Thompson’s Diary on the Filming of “Sense and Sensibility,” Part 1
Emma Thompson’s Diary on the Filming of “Sense and Sensibility,” Part 3
SATURDAY 13 MAY: Up 6 a.m. to cloudless sky. Walked to work. Jan tells me I have to go to Cannes – she was very clear about it. I’ll regret it if I don’t, even if it wrecks me. Alan R., who has clepped himself Colonel Weathercover (‘weathercover’ means interior scenes that are slated to be shot if the weather is not right for the scheduled exterior scenes) and spent days on end trying to amuse himself in the hotel, is in to work finally and looking a tad bewildered. ‘I’m not as well as I would like to be,’ he responded to my enquiry. Greg very energetic this morning. Morag: ‘Nothing that a syringe of horse sedative won’t cure.’ Overheard later: Kate: ‘Oh God, my knickers have gone up my arse.’ Alan: ‘Ah. Feminine mystique strikes again.’ Sun went in and out all day so again we had to cover the scene in shine and cloud. Alan had a trying morning – trotting up, dismounting, tying up the bloody horse, dealing with his crop, taking his hat off and reverencing on the side of a hill. Horse kept moving around so its great black arse overwhelmed the shot. Deb Kaye lay on the grass, hissing at it, ‘Get back, you bastard’ etc. Not Alan’s happiest moment but he was splendid, charming and virile. Lots of argument about Willoughby’s arrival. Should it all be on a master (i.e. one shot only)? The crew want coverage. Ang thinks coverage is irrelevant. Should Willoughby help Marianne into the carriage, or Brandon, or both? Should Marianne say, ‘Now I shall really be able to play for you, Willoughby’ or is it too rude and should she address it to the whole group? In the meantime, Greg has to drive in a carriage with two horses, make them stop on a pre-arranged mark, hold them steady while acting and getting Kate into her seat and then move them off as if he did such things every day of his life. Also the horses have taken to letting off lengthy and noisome farts during the takes. Debbie says it’s the Devon oats. Privately I decide to lay off the porridge. Deb’s as embarrassed for the horses as if they were her own children. Kate tells me her first note from Ang was, ‘You’ll get better.’ I shrieked. It’s raining now. The weather reports are all contradictory and none describes with any accuracy the weather we’ve got. Greg and Kate in the high-flyer were a wonderful sight — genuinely transported with excitement. Probably because it’s quite dangerous. We’ve yet to pick up the beginning of the scene in cloud. Given up now and have come inside to do at least one set-up on the hair-cutting scene with Gemma (where Willoughby begs a lock of hair from Marianne). Sat chilled, looking at the swans and cormorants flying over the estuary. We’ve flattened all the grass on the lawn and it has to be fluffed up for the shot. Hilarity reigns. I feel tired and out of it and beg not to do the scene tonight. But we have to do the scene – schedule is biting. I play the scene tired and out of it. Ang likes it.
SUNDAY 14 MAY: 6 p.m. We await tea. There is a special weekend of ‘miniature bear making’ going on in the hotel. Apparently a group of ladies meet regularly for nice swims, meals, conversation and a shared interest in miniature bear making. Still trying to get my mind round it. The party on Saturday was wild. Everyone fell on the opportunity to let go and was drunk before having drunk anything. Alan nearly killed me, whirling me about the place. Everyone was under the table by midnight except Greg, who was on the ceiling. I discussed the film industry with some of the drivers – who’ve seen it all, of course, and get very depressed about the fact that we don’t finance nearly enough films in Britain. This film was financed in the States and most of the revenue will end up there. Ridiculous state of affairs. Had a bop with Ang. Very good dancer. ‘I haven’t done this for years,’ he said, looking surprised and bouncing about like a piece of India rubber. Home at 3.30 a.m. in a taxi, arseholed. I stumbled into my bedroom where Harriet Walter (who’d come down specially and was sharing my room) was already asleep. She sat bolt upright. ‘Help me!’ I wailed. ‘Oh, God,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you try throwing up?’ A good line in that cut-glass accent, I thought, even as I threw myself at the loo bowl. Ang’s latest note to Greg: ‘Great acting. I think.’
MONDAY 15 MAY: Everyone looking slightly bushed. Up 6 a.m., looked at the sky, couldn’t decide what it was going to do, so washed and went back to bed. Bernie rang and told me to stay in bed, then rang back twenty minutes later and said, ‘Come in.’ It’s sunny, finally. Alan R. in slight state of shock about working methods but I have assured him it works. We seem to feel our way into the shots. Ang’s style of leadership is somehow to draw us all to him silently and wait for things to happen. He has the shape of shots in his head always and will stand for silent minutes on end thinking through the flow of the scenes to see if what we’re doing will fit his vision. I find it very inspiring but it’s quite different to being told what to do. More collaborative. I think he’s enjoying our ideas more now he knows they don’t present a threat or a lack of respect. 5.30 p.m. Going outside to catch the last of the daylight for Willoughby and Brandon’s meeting, then coming back in for Alan’s close-up. Strange to have Alan and Robert Hardy on board now, it feels like a new movie. Hugh’s section seems months ago and another life. There are so many different story lines in this script and we’ve been entirely focused on Elinor and Edward. Now Brandon’s story begins. Robert Hardy brings the nineteenth century with him, he’s born out of his time. Courteous,
intelligent and witty in tweed. I very much like the fact that there are four generations represented in this film – from Margaret’s twelve-year-old perspective through Elinor and Marianne’s twenties and Mrs Dashwood’s forties to Mrs Jennings’s sixties. Not a thirty-something in sight. Ang massaged my stupid neck (stiff as wood from dancing too long). Taking a long time to get up to speed today.
TUESDAY 16 MAY: 10 a.m. At last the weather’s broken! Couldn’t sleep last night so I’m very grateful not to be on camera today. Up at nine to do a workout, eat porridge despite fear of flatulence and join them in the rain. Later: Lots of very cold, wet people in real rain, effects rain and mist again. Slow start. Laurie’s pulling his hair out. Ang’s gentle flow doesn’t seem so gentle when you’re frozen but all’s well. Good humour prevails. I am in very fetching white wet-weather trousers and wellies. Look as if I work in a chicken factory. This was the day a very sodden Greg bounded up to Alan and asked, with all his usual ebullience, how he was. Long pause as Alan surveyed him through halfclosed eyes from beneath a huge golfing umbrella. Then – ‘I’m dry.’ Sometimes Alan reminds me of the owl in Beatrix Potter’s Squirrel Nutkin. If you took too many liberties with him I’m sure he’d have your tail off in a trice. 10.20 p.m. In bed with a herbal cushion from Kate. She fainted at 6 p.m. so cold, so wet for so long. Alan found Ang sitting on a box, his head low, his fists clenched. ‘I tortured her,’ he moaned. ‘Don’t worry,’ said Alan. ‘You’ll have the opportunity to do it to me soon.’ Kate was sent flowers by the production and four bottles of Newcastle Brown Ale from the ADs. We warmed her up slowly in her caravan, her feet thrust into Greg’s armpits. According to Paul (our paramedic) this is the best way of warming feet and she made a very good recovery. The hotel had built an enormous fire which we sat around with a glass. Robert Hardy had had the day off and found an entrancing post office in Yealmpton that he could barely tear himself away from. ‘A proper English post office smelling of dust and jam with a little old lady who enquired after my health.’ Elizabeth Spriggs has arrived. Full of energy, pouring out affection like a particularly comforting teapot. Bad weather means more rain work for Kate tomorrow so we’ll have to be very careful. We sat today in a strange, tiny hut on the beach, drying her stockings before a real fire, and steaming gently. Good work today, though. Willoughby’s entrance through the mist on a white horse. We all swooned. Ang laughed at us. ‘This scene is ridiculous,’ he said. ‘It’s a girl thing,’ Lindsay and I replied. Really wet, though, that rain.
WEDNESDAY 17 MAY: Up 5.45 – looked at sky. Couldn’t work it out. Washed. Walked to work. They cancelled me. Came home. Went back to bed at 7 a.m. and slept till ten – out like a light. Off to the set now, to watch Robert Hardy, who looks like a caterpillar in his costume. Later found Ang looking at the estuary with a mournful expression. I went and stood beside him. After a moment he said, waving towards the water, ‘Tide goes in, tide goes out, tide goes in, tide goes out – and still no sex.’ ‘Do you miss it?’ I enquired, after I’d stopped laughing. He nodded sadly. His family won’t be back for weeks. Kate got rained on again. She’s been a total hero and heartbreaking on the hill with the sonnet. Alan arrived and had to run up a very steep hill in thick tweeds and thermals. Then he had to stand in rain which was blinding today. Thank God we had wind and clouds.
THURSDAY 18 MAY: Managed to pee on most of my underwear this morning (trailer loos are very cramped) so I’m in a very bad temper. Didn’t sleep. Had three breakfasts to make up for it. Sun is out. Amazing that the cloud held just for those two days. Robert and Liz come down to rehearse their arrival scene. Wonderful as they can extemporise within the period. Quick rewrite on arrival scene and we’ve got the line in about camphor being good for ‘the staggers’ so I’m pleased. 1.30 p.m. Good morning. Six horses, three carriages, six dogs, six actors – madness. All waiting for cloud. Thank God for Liz and Robert who are not only brilliant but stalwart. My bowels are up to no good today. There would appear to be several more scenes on the call-sheet. Help. Poor Emilie had a headache and a maths test today. It’s hell being twelve. This week has flown. Some fight starting up over a Jaffa Cake in make-up. 7 p.m. Still shooting. Alan and Greg swanned in after a fabulous day visiting an English winery and pubs. We all spat at them. The sun has come out so we’ll work indoors and go outside later. Rehearsing poetryreading scene also. 8 p.m. Am slightly hysterical now. Huge spot has appeared on chin. 10.30 p.m. Finally in bed – far too late.
FRIDAY 19 MAY: Woke 3.30. Well and truly bollocksed. 10 a.m. Already have a couple of things in the can, shot outside in the sun. Rain came on and we moved indoors. Ang had a go on a horse. ‘This is easy,’ he said as it walked very sedately along, being led by Deb. Sense and Sensibility signs litter Devon arrows with S & S on. Whenever Ang sees a B &c B sign he thinks it’s for another movie. We’re working on the second scene between Willoughby and Marianne where they read the sonnet together. Difficult to give poetry reading a sexy hue in this day and age but what else can he do? Give her a massage? Must avoid twee. Oh, please don’t let any of it be twee, I’ll die. I’ll be assassinated by the Jane Austen Society (who rang James’s company in New York to complain about the casting of Hugh Grant as Edward – too good-looking apparently). My spot has gone volcanic and I’m very bitter about it. 6 p.m. Found myself, on the turnaround of the poetry-reading scene, acting my bit while tiptoeing about among mike leads, climbing over Chris (Gurney, boom operator, very stoic individual), putting props down on plastic beer boxes and picking up others, squeezing myself in beside the polystyrene and thinking, What the hell am I doing? I dare say a spot of alienation’s good for you. We all started singing ‘Kumbaya’ this p.m., which shows how tired we were – no one had the strength to put an end to it. I received a wonderful invitation from a local couple with a very enjoyable sentence which ran thus: ‘In particular there would be no question of anyone being advised of your being entertained here as this part of the country is famous for shellfish.’ Gemma {to me as I scribble): ‘I do hope this diary isn’t going to be libellous.’ Gemma is magic. She looks so innocent and pure and then she opens her mouth and says something rude. She’s got the dirtiest laugh I’ve ever heard. Lindsay came into the green room the other day and asked her if she’d like a bun. ‘I’d like a bun almost as much as I’d like a man,’ she replied, unblinkingly. Can’t get my lenses in and grope blindly about the set.
SATURDAY 20 MAY : Cannes. Get on plane 9 a.m. apparently it belongs to Chris de Burgh. My spot has made a third appearance and practically has features of its own. I try to improve my appearance and just end up getting a quantity of mascara in my hair. Press ahead. 7 p.m. Cannes rather quiet. They have less money from the government this year, I’m told. Pamela Anderson causing great excitement in black leather get-up. Went for a walk despite earnest pleas from the publicity folk not to: ‘You’ll be bothered by photographers and public,’ they intone. Trotted off down the Croisette and no one took a blind bit of notice except one young person who clutched her companion and hissed, ‘Is that Sharon Stone?’ I was thrilled until I realised she was referring to the woman behind me (who didn’t look like Sharon Stone either). Charming journos all day. Foreign.
SUNDAY 21 MAY: Bad press conference on balance – useless questions and we weren’t as entertaining as we might have been but everything else went according to plan. 2 a.m. Finally in bed. The MTV party is opposite my hotel on beach so I’m buggered. Wax earplugs and pills the only answer. What a day. Screening went very well and Chris Hampton was pleased so everyone’s happy. Didn’t drink too much. Was got at by the fashion police for wearing jeans on the Marches of the Palais. I had no idea there was a dress code . . . Came home to an appalling review in Variety.
MONDAY 22 MAY: Up early to leave. Walked out of my bedroom to find my fat face outside every bedroom door on the Cannes Newsletter. A surreal and essentially unpleasant moment.
TUESDAY 23 MAY: Bizarre to be back at Alston Hall. French press on Carrington very good. English press mixed but a good response in general and Polygram are very pleased. Press conference yielded the usual crop of daftness. I’ve been asked if I related personally to Carrington’s tortured relationship with sex and replied that no, not really, I’d had a very pleasant time since I was fifteen. This elicited very disapproving copy from the Brits. They’re like a pack of maiden aunts sometimes – slingbacks clacking and knitting needles pointing. No wonder people think we don’t have sex in England. Very fine rehearsal. Beautiful day. Stiff neck. Going great on atlasarriving sequence. Emilie has a natural quick intelligence that informs every movement — she creates spontaneity in all of us just by being there. Generally a marvellous piece of direction from Ang, who loves the unspoken undercurrents everywhere. We had to wait a lot for wind. It blew our skirts and aprons, and the coats hanging in the doorway. Something nostalgic, lonely about it.
WEDNESDAY 24 MAY: Asleep by eleven with the help of a pill, up at six to cloud, no idea what we’re doing, it changes by the moment. Fruit, toast, coffee. Ang has an upset stomach and has stopped eating pink iced buns for breakfast. His colon is grumbling. We talk about what he wants to do next. He longs for something masculine — opium wars, we suggest. Lots of men and guns. Lunchtime. Kate and Gemma are sitting in their corsets talking about the Hollywood Porn Awards – they’ve found pictures of this ceremony in an old magazine. We’ve still not shot the master (the set-up that captures an entire scene or a large part of it. Then you cover the scene in close-up, two-shots and so forth). Gemma, after two hours’ waiting: ‘Oh, God, it’s like childbirth. You go on and on and on and on and still nothing happens.’ Twoish. Exhausted now and I get dizzy spells because my blood pressure has plummeted. Somewhat demoralised to have achieved only one shot by this hour. Everyone’s yawning. A nine-hour break is really insufficient, but we generally get ten or twelve. This does not apply to many of the crew, though – de-rigging or prep for the next day’s work can mean they get eight or nine hours off at most. The tired mood is right for this scene, though. Sun’s out now so everyone’s running around with filters, screens and heavy frowns. Very hard going today. 9.30 p.m. We didn’t quite get to Gem’s last shot, which upset her. Very frustrating after such a long wait. The ADs sent a bottle of champagne to the hotel in apology. She doesn’t drink so we nicked it.
THURSDAY 25 MAY: Slept well for the first time in days and without pills. Bits and bobs today and wholly reliant on weather. Picking up this and that as we can, rather confusing. A sheep collapsed from heat exhaustion. Just keeled over in the back of shot. The shepherd’s worrying about his flock and is always asking when he can shear them. After this we told him to go ahead. They appear later, with haircuts, behind Marianne and Margaret as they walk.
FRIDAY 26 MAY: Lovely relaxed evening last night, clouds scudding across sky. An odd day, with a confusing number of scenes, plus doctors and acupuncturists for my neck and Mick’s back. Everyone went in and out of the green room as various consultations took place. Plus a fair bit of snoozing. Rain. Winding down, mellow atmosphere. It will be like starting yet another movie next week. Am munching ham sandwiches. Robert Hardy left a crate of champagne. We live for pleasure. I’ve done nothing but eat all day. Morag said I was getting thin in the face. Fell asleep in Kate’s lap. Feel very calm. Odd. Ang still off the buns and the smokes. We need some sun. Later: Ang sitting shredding a polystyrene cup with a little frown creasing his smooth brow. Second unit are doing carriage run-bys (shots on moving carriages with no artists, although Roy Bond, one of the drivers, is standing in for Mrs Jennings. He’s the same shape but has a large moustache. It won’t read). All the girls from hair and make-up are doing tapestries. It started with one or two but has spread like wildfire they’re all at it now. Most peculiar. Lindsay comes in with the silhouette scene typed up. I think it’s good. We need more dialogue for Sir John and Mrs Jennings as they walk up the path. Ironically that’s one of the bits I cut down as it was almost three pages. I remember, back in the mists of pre-production, saying, ‘They’ll do it very quickly,’ which cut no ice at the time. Kate makes a bracelet. We’re in our nighties, our plaits down our backs. Ang settles down for a snooze. The weather does worry him. Only one day left at this location. Hypnotic, Kate’s hands knotting the threads. Shrieks of laughter ooze up from downstairs. Ang asks about theatre how anyone can do eight shows a week for months on end. Nightmare visions of Me and My Girl hove into left-hand side of brain. Thank God there’s no tap-dancing in this film. The green room full of biscuits, buns and half-eaten sarnies, plus Monday’s newspapers. Ang under such enormous pressure I’m surprised his colon hasn’t crawled out of his mouth, never mind grumbling. Discussion about shots and us (Kate and I) sometimes looking less than perfect. Ang says, that’s not what it’s about, looking good. We agree, fervently. Typical mid-term reactions settling in – Paul the medic rushing about supplying vitamins, laxatives, herbal sleeping pills, aspirin and God knows what else. Said goodbye to everyone at Alston Hall this a.m., which made us sad. I was so relaxed there I took to removing my make-up in the bar, sitting cross-legged in socks and leaving little damp pads of cotton wool everywhere. Disgusting, when you come to think of it. The staff looked after us like family. We try to find an extra line for Margaret as she picks up Willoughby’s gear in the rain. Lindsay suggests, ‘I’ll get the stuff,’ which makes me laugh immoderately. I counter with Willoughby saying, ‘Pray get the stuff.’ ‘It’s in the book!’ we keep screaming. Lindsay is having a horrid time of it. There’s so much left to shoot. She’s made a list of ‘luxury’ scenes and ‘crucial’ scenes. We almost didn’t shoot Elinor listening to Marianne packing and deciding not to tell her about Lucy’s engagement. Did it in the end, hoping it will be effective in one shot. Tempers fray. Candles are difficult to work with.
SATURDAY 27 MAY: Up 5.15 a.m. thinking, packpackpack. I appear to have accumulated more things. How does this happen? I haven’t shopped. Think my bath oils have bred. It’s raining and dull and exactly the sort of weather we don’t need. Will reshoot the Dashwoods’ reaction to Edward’s arrival (‘I do not think it is Colonel Brandon’) in the rain. Will it match the interior? Probably not. This is where Mick works magic and creates false sunlight. His concentration is terrific. Ang must be getting better. He produced a lot of Chinese snacks for us last night – crunchy peas and freeze-dried cuttlefish. Fell asleep at lunch and awoke to find Emilie, Kate, Ang and Greg playing games. It’s not like work at all today. I’m not working, of course, but it doesn’t feel as if anyone else is either. Ribald laughter floating up from the garden where the sparks are clearing away. Raining. Cosy. Shooting Willoughby carrying Marianne up the path. They did it four times. ‘Faster,’ said Ang. They do it twice more. ‘Don’t pant so much,’ said Ang. Greg, to his great credit, didn’t scream. The image of the man carrying the woman is horribly effective. Male strength – the desire to be cradled again? Had sage discussion with John Jordan (focus puller, very gentle) over the barrel of the lens about allowing all those politically incorrect desires their head. I’d love someone to pick me up and carry me off. Frightening. Lindsay assures me I’d start to fidget after a while. She’s such a comfort. My roll-ups keep going out. Kate makes hers like small sleeping bags. It’s impossible to imagine not leaving this place a mass of polystyrene cups and cables. But we will. The art department has added so much in the way of lintels, outside and in, shelves, plastering etc. that it’s not easy to picture how it will look in its civilian state. The estuary very Turneresque today. Soft air. Doing wild tracks for sound now – we all sit quietly as Tony Dawe (sound recordist, merry, keeps hens) records atmosphere and the odd line or two that we haven’t managed to get ‘clean’ during the take. Ang must be getting better. He’s eating pickled cucumbers out of a tin.
TUESDAY 30 MAY: Weekend in London. Tea, mooching, Chinese food; fought my way through the garden and then the mail. Travelled Monday with Kate and Imelda to Yeovil and found myself in a glory of stone and wisteria at Montacute – the location for Cleveland, home to the Palmers. The move of location has energised the troops, although a weekend always leaves people looking shell-shocked. We’re five and a half weeks in with six and a half to go. The time shoots by. I determine to savour every precious moment daily and of course in the very nature of it there’s almost no time to savour anything. Talked about the long Brandon confession scene with Alan. The trick is to break up the bulk of the information with character and to make it a scene about – as Alan puts it – a man thawing out after having been in a fridge for twenty years. The movement of blood and warmth back into unaccustomed veins is extremely painful. The scene has existed in many different forms – flashbacks, stylised imagery – until I realised it was emotionally more interesting to let Brandon tell the story himself and find it difficult. We’re already juggling with the weather as it’s going to improve and we need to do the exterior shots at Cleveland in grey at least. 4 p.m. Back to hotel (which is a glorious place called Summer Lodge in Evershot) after having done nothing but rehearse a little, dye my roots with Jan and eat. The Cleveland section of the story is fragmented anyway – and our days will reflect that.
WEDNESDAY 31 MAY: Glorious sunshine. Hugh Laurie has arrived, which is a great fillip. There is no one on the planet who could capture Mr Palmer’s disenchantment and redemption so perfectly, and make it so funny. He’s writing a novel in between takes, in his trailer. We prepare to do, ‘I think Marianne may need a doctor.’ Hugh surprised to learn that it’s at night. ‘Have you read the script?’ I enquired tartly. Recalled Hugh Grant’s words – ‘I’m never acting with the screenwriter again.’ It’s true I’m always at them. The language in the novel is complex and far more arcane than in the later books. In simplifying it I’ve tried to retain the elegance and wit of the original and it’s necessarily more exacting than modern speech. Spoke to Christopher Hampton, who’s very pleased about Carrington and tells me it’s doing great business in France. Three interior scenes today.Thank God we did Friday’s work yesterday – weather seems set to improve. Spoke to Stephen Fry, who sounds very cheerful and is driving back across the States. Once, last year, my computer scrambled the script and because I am a computer-illiterate fool, I had no back-up. No one from Apple Mac could rescue it so I took it over to Stephen’s and he spent an entire day finding it. I hyperventilated with gratitude for weeks. Tourist saw Alan and said, ‘Oh, look, there’s Tom Cruise.’ Probably the same one who thought I was Sharon Stone. 9.30 a.m. Still not shooting. Late start again. They refused to let us use the breakfast room yesterday so we re-set the scene of waiting for Dr Harris’s diagnosis in a great hall, which changed the nature of the scene entirely. Quite good really, because it’s tenser. It’s perhaps better for suspense that the Palmers are more nervous than I’ve suggested in the script. Mick’s lighting for me coming downstairs with a candle was very complex. Tried the false candle with wires and batteries strapped in a bum-bag round my waist, the switch for it trapped between the cheeks of my arse, and realised it wasn’t going to work. Hugh L. had his first spoken syllable and got very anxious. It’s very hard starting one’s part in the middle of a shoot. Kate and I are on so consistently that we’ve forgotten the camera’s there. Best thing. National Trust very strict with their hours – but very nice people who actually seem quite pleased to see us. Ang is in heaven. There is no dialogue. ‘This is pure cinema,’ he says, pleased. I seem finally to have stopped worrying about Elinor, and age. She seems now to be perfectly normal – about twenty-five, a witty control freak. I like her but I can see how she would drive you mad. She’s just the sort of person you’d want to get drunk, just to make her giggling and silly. Ang is thrilled with all the topiary in the gardens. He had Marianne walking by this extraordinary wiggly hedge. Apparently it snowed one year and the snow froze the hedge. When the thaw came, they cut away the dead bits and continued to grow the hedge — in the shape of a wild snowdrift. It looks like a brain. ‘Sensibility,’ said Ang, pointing to it triumphantly. ‘And sense,’ he continued, pointing in the other direction towards a very neat line of carefully trimmed flowerpot-shaped bushes. The stone and lines of Montacute — grand, almost too grand though they are – give this part of the story a Gothic and mysterious flavour. The public visit, casting curious glances and smiling shyly but making no enquiries or requests. Medieval oak-panelled rooms and very goodlooking cows. I’m hungry. Hugh L. and I still regretting the frankly disastrous cream tea we scarfed yesterday. Bad news. Big George died at 3 a.m. yesterday. Debbie is in a terrible state. She loves them so and he was a remarkable horse. Enshrined forever, I hope, as one of the most romantic quadrupeds who ever lived. Greg very upset too. We made tea and Deb told us the story – a ruptured colon. Very quick, mercifully, and totally unexpected, nothing could be done. Grave news and we try to cheer ourselves with thoughts on his film credit and flowers. Now we set up a very complex shot on Alan entering with a very wet Kate, the Palmers and Elinor rushing to him and between them carrying Marianne off and leaving Brandon standing exhausted in the middle of the hall. Ang wants to do it all in one shot so it will develop from a twoshot on Brandon and Marianne into a single shot on Marianne into a four-shot on Charlotte, Mr Palmer, Marianne and Elinor and back into a single shot on Alan. It’s going to be difficult and superb, I hope, if it works. Huge numbers of people watching and a lot of Chinese press. Everyone very excited by this shot. It’s so different to the style we’ve had to use in dialogue scenes where there’s far less movement. Put on my costume. Barrier against the twentieth century. Funny how alien they feel at first and how safe and full of history they become surprisingly quickly. Ang, on returning from a restaurant: ‘The acting in England is much better than the food.’
THURSDAY 1 JUNE: The worst news. Christopher Reeve (with whom I worked on The Remains of the Day) has been badly hurt in a riding accident. Black, black day. Sense and Sensibility is about love and money. Perhaps its main question is, can love survive without money? A pithy question. Romantic codes teach us that love conquers all. Elinor disagrees. You need a decent wage, a competence. Some people need more. Some people need more money than love. Most people would rather have love with a comfortable amount of money. It’s a difficult thing to accept. It cries out against all our cherished ideals. But interesting that our ‘western’ romantic symbols cost a great deal. Roses, diamonds . . . The lawn is covered in daisies, which indicate the wrong season. Chris Newman asks all the members of the public who are watching to pick them off. Wonderful image as they all kneel obligingly and get to work. Journalists on set. One informed me she’d seen Carrington in Cannes and didn’t like it. ‘Oh,’ I said. I’m so exhausted today that any extra demands make me tetchy. Must stop smoking. My one roll-up idea develops into five or six and it’s madness. Harriet Walter and James Fleet are back, commenting on the real oddness of having been away so long. I felt like that on Remains – missed everyone terribly and wanted to work more. It’s a great privilege to be completely involved from start to finish. Dinner with everyone, which nearly killed me. Staggered into bed at 11.20 and woke with the light at six. Glorious light.
FRIDAY 2 JUNE: A bugger of a day as it’s sunny and there are four huge windows, which makes lighting the room exceptionally difficult – and we’ve a crying-baby shot in every scene. Ang furrowed, hand against his cheek, all morning. So much to do. Much tension. Mick never wanted to shoot here because of the windows. It’s supposed to be wild and stormy – what if the sun shines all day? We’ll have to build platforms and create the weather outside each separate window. Impossible in the time. We were lucky. It clouded over. Thinking up lots of additional dialogue keeps me busy. We’ve hired the calmest babies in the world to play the hysterical Thomas. One did finally start to cry but stopped every time Chris yelled ‘Action’. Later: Babies smiled all afternoon. Buddhist babies. They didn’t cry once. We, however, were all in tears by 5 p.m. Very fractious. By 8 p.m. we were all in an antechamber telling stories to keep ourselves awake.
SATURDAY 3 JUNE: Bed with a pill at eleven. Woken at three by the birds, at four by the draught and at six by the light. In to work with a stiff neck for 8 a.m. Pissing down. Perfect. Must finish early as the move to Salisbury will kill everyone. Haven’t had enough sleep this week and next week is night shoots. I’ll look ninety. Imelda (to me): ‘You’d suit a bad perm.’ Very nice lady served us drinks in hotel and was followed in by a cat. We all crooned at it. Alan to cat (very low and meaning it): ‘Fuck off.’ The nice lady didn’t turn a hair. The cat looked slightly embarrassed but stayed.
SUNDAY 4 JUNE: 8.40 p.m. State of shock as we arrive in Southampton to ghastly modern hotel on a roundabout. After our protected, countryfied existence it’s a rude awakening. I am melancholy. Tomorrow a gigantic day so am putting self to bed severely early.
MONDAY 5 JUNE: 6.40 a.m. Grey skies. Slept so well I’m a new man. And that’s unusual. Will cloud burn off? 8 a.m. We’re about to do line-up for a scene that’s thirty shots, two cameras and almost the entire cast. Very seriously overstretched. One can feel everyone’s sinews tautening. 9.30 a.m. Make-up and hair full of people going from pillar to post. A line-up of staggering complexity. Lots of folk from the Much Ado crew have joined to do Camera B. Still can’t work out weather. Morag relieved to find I’d slept. I’d started to look exhausted. Must be disciplined this week. The curtains in this new hotel are very efficient so the light didn’t wake me at four. I like it here.
Ang looks rested and says there’s a decent Chinese in Southampton. Phil, he and Mick very anxious about the amount we’ve got to do. Hugh Laurie felt the line ‘Don’t palm all your abuses’ was possibly too rude. ‘It’s in the book,’ I said. He didn’t hit me. Lunch. We’ve managed the Louma crane (from which the camera, sans operator, is suspended) shot and that’s all. Didn’t turn over till 11.30. Period cows with balletic horns. Excitement. Today’s work will have to be completed in two weeks’ time. It was always impossible to get this in a day and we can’t shift the night shoots which start tomorrow, willy-nilly. 9 p.m. Just back. Think I’m allergic to horses. Did about six shots out of the thirty. Two set-ups on the Louma crane, two on Camera B and a dolly shot on Camera A which brought Nick very dramatically in on a wonderful horse, scattering period cows. Imogen had a radio mike taped inside her parasol so the angles she held it at became rather crucial. Lots of standing about. I smoked too much. We’ve much more to do but what we got was divine. Mrs J’s hat figured largely.
TUESDAY 6 JUNE: Night shoots. 7 p.m. Wilton – the home to the Earl of Pembroke – is our location for the interiors of the ballroom sequence where Willoughby encounters Marianne and makes it clear that their relationship is over. It’s a breathtaking place. Camera crew already tense about the size of the rooms and the difficulty of shooting anything in them, let alone with a crowd of extras. 9 p.m. Waiting to dress. Tension mounts. No time to rehearse. It’s dark. Think I’m getting conjunctivitis. Saveloys for breakfast. A hundred extras in evening dress, every one differently characterised, from soldiers and lawyers to fops and dowagers. A monumental effort on the part of costumes, hair and make-up. Lindsay is bowled over by it. Dancers rehearse and candles are lit in rooms full of ancient and exquisite paintings. I’ve lost weight and my evening dress feels loose. Pulled boobs up as far as they’d go but they’re still disappointing. Midnight. Completed first shot. Liz Spriggs on fine form as the engine of the scene. The interiors are extraordinary and we’re so agog there’s no problem in playing the awed Misses D. up from the country. 3 a.m. Sewn back into costume after a spot of veg curry which is already playing havoc with my colon. Rather tense line-up for Robert Ferrars (Richard Lumsden) being introduced. Of course it’s very sparsely written on purpose as I didn’t want to lengthen script with unnecessary introductions, but now it feels rather bald. I’m adding things, and trying not to panic. Jane Gibson (movement teacher) is back. I stand up as straight as I can. She fixes me with a beady eye: ‘Don’t slump.’ We’ve done the antechamber and are moving into the ices room, which is full of beautiful syllabubs and sorbets made of icing sugar. A million different problems need to be addressed and everyone’s point of view is necessary for the scene to work, which means shooting it from each character’s angle of vision. With eight or nine characters present and not enough time to shoot everyone singly, the first problem is to work out where to put everyone so that we can include two or three people in a single shot. Then you have to avoid ‘crossing the line’. This is a mysterious business. It’s up to the director of photography, operator, director and continuity person to keep tabs on ‘the line’. If you cross it the effect can be disastrous – people are looking in the wrong direction, essentially, so the screen grammar goes to pot. Where ‘the line’ is from moment to moment is sometimes so complex that I’ve known continuity people who’ve been in the business for decades to scratch their heads and take a long time to work out where the actor should look in relation to the camera. A small knot of people gather in the middle of the room and scratch their heads. Even I’ve started to clamp my hand to my cheek. Ang’s has been glued to his for hours. Also on night shoots each person’s low point comes at a different moment so eyelids droop from 1.30 a.m. onwards at varying intervals. Smoke too. This is produced from a little canister and wafted about the room. It diffuses the light and is very effective on camera but it eats up the oxygen. Kate felt sick and then wanted to cry. She can’t afford to, it takes too long to re-do the make-up. I do Jimmy Cagney impressions to distract her. She asks me to go away. My Uncle George is playing an extra in a powdered wig. Alan Rickman sent a huge quantity of chocolate to keep us all going.
WEDNESDAY 7 JUNE: Back to hotel by 9 a.m. Shoved a fig into my face and went to bed. Woke at 1.40 p.m. for a pee and a moan, went back to sleep till five. Quick shower and back to base for make-up. Drops from local doctor (a dish, incidentally) for incipient eye infection. Very sore. Paul the medic run off his feet. Kate’s foot has swollen – inexplicably. Immensely thrilling line-up with all the dancers and musicians. One camera on a platform and one on the dolly. Managed first dolly shot and top shot by elevenish. Stuart Hopps is brilliant with his choreography. He seems to be able to teach it without saying anything. The ballroom looks wonderful. Huge fire. Lights hidden in false pillars and then an incongruous collection of Mick’s paper lanterns hanging from the painted ceiling to light us. Met Henry Herbert (Earl of Pembroke), a charming man who’s just worked with Ismail (Merchant) and is still reeling. Tried to remember the dance steps I’d learned six weeks previously, dropped my stole and tripped up every single dancer in the set. No real food or drink allowed in these rooms on pain of death so this looks like the teetotallers’ ball. I’m hoping the audience will assume eating and drinking goes on elsewhere, mainly in the ices room. Elinor bumping into Willoughby feels good and exciting, especially coming out of the comedy between her and Robert. I had never imagined this scene occurring in so many different rooms but Ang’s vision is full of movement – and notions of class. He’s put Willoughby’s party into yet another room – even more elite than the rest – so when Marianne sees the portrait of wealth surrounding him the message is crushingly clear. Kate probably won’t get on camera tonight but is staying up anyway to remain on a similar time scale. The combination of heat, smoke and airlessness affects eyes and energy.
Related:
- Emma Thompson’s Diary on the Filming of “Sense and Sensibility,” Part 1
- Emma Thompson’s Diary on the Filming of “Sense and Sensibility,” Part 3
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