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 2
THURSDAY 8 JUNE: Kate’s got phlebitis in her leg and a limp; my eyes are pinker than Ang’s breakfast buns. Home this a.m. at 7.30. The boys had a beer. Bed eightish – restless but I must have slept till four, because I had a dream about Betty Bacall. Also about laughing. One rarely dreams about laughing. Interesting. Pat Doyle’s fault probably. He’s the composer. Scottish. One of a family of about thirteen so the effort to get noticed in a crowd has never worn off. He makes me laugh almost more than any human being I know. It’s raining, which makes everything much more difficult and damp. Everyone gets wet travelling between base and the set, so make-up and hair are run off their feet. The dailies, Lindsay says, are fantastic. Scrambled eggs for breakfast at 6 p.m. Don’t eat much through the night. Even the extras are having a good time, they say. Ang munched illegal bread on set and giggled. He’s happy, I think. Troublesome rehearsals but I hope all will be well. Kate came down stone stairs very carefully in order to protect her leg, slipped and hurt her wrist. She’s at the hospital now having an X-ray. Frankly, I’m not expecting her to survive the night. I had a glass of water in the Earl of Pembroke’s sitting room, which is the size of a field. My eyes have decided to recover a bit and nobody’s cried yet so we must be doing well. Miss Grey (Lone Vidahl) arrives. She’s gorgeous. Much better-looking than any of us, and that includes Paul Kemp. Everyone stares. Kate is back. It is just a sprain. Bandages everywhere.
FRIDAY 9 JUNE: Slept from 6 a.m. to 3.20 p.m. We’re unexpectedly well ahead and will be able to go back for pick-ups in the ices room. Huge tax bill arrived so somehow I’ve got to get to a bank. Hugh L. kept treading on the train of Imelda’s dress, which pulled it down so far it exposed her boobs. Keep it in, I said, but she wouldn’t. Fed up with breakfasts. Caterers grey with fatigue.
SATURDAY 10 JUNE: Champagne on wrap: a gift from Ang to the crew. We must’ve woken the Herberts up squealing. Marvellous week. James Fleet did his close-up last at 6 a.m. and made everyone laugh so much he got a round of applause. Subtle mobility of his face bewitchingly funny. I could watch him for hours.
SUNDAY 11 JUNE: Drank far too much last night and woke at 5.30 a.m. Could’ve gone on drinking all night. Quite grateful for a hangover, it provides a bit of peace. Walked on to my balcony completely naked last night and took the couple that have moved into the suite next door slightly by surprise. Walked back in calmly affecting insouciance and then bit all my pillows, one after the other.
MONDAY 12 JUNE: Back to Trafalgar to shoot interior scenes in Sir John and Mrs Jennings’s drawing room at Barton Park. Lucy reveals to Elinor her engagement to Edward. Two days’ work and lots of acting. Imogen a wonderful combination of coy and calculating. Kate’s phlebitis much better and my eyes clear. 12.45 p.m. First shot of day. Robert Hardy extemporised a wonderful story for Margaret as they play with the map. Spontaneous applause from crew. Late finish 8.20.
TUESDAY 13 JUNE: Took a full thirty seconds to work out where I was this morning. Fried eggs and Florentines have produced a spot. Very painful morning – five and a half pages of dialogue with seven actors involves a lot of clever footwork. We all play the scene amid a welter of flags and lamp-stands trying to provide eye lines as the crew go cross-eyed trying to avoid crossing the line, which would appear, in this scene, to be in fifteen different places at once. It all goes something like this: Ang works out what he wants the actors to do. The actors keep saying, ‘I wouldn’t do that – I’d do this.’ Specifically, I say, ‘If I’ve just heard the man I love is engaged to someone else, I’d sink into the chair behind me, not one halfway across the room.’ So things get changed, agreed to and the actors go off to make-up. Then the camera crew say, ‘I can’t shoot this’ or ‘We can’t light this’, and everything gets changed again. Then the actors come back and say, ‘I can’t do this’, so it all gets changed again. We don’t finish the scene. Lindsay looks for another profession. Mick swears that Ang swore when they first visited the location that there would be only two shots involving the windows. Ang has changed his mind. Mick looks for a different profession. Lindsay and I are upset about two paintings that seem very out of place in Sir John’s house but which Ang is devoted to. Also we complain about the size of the room, which doesn’t seem big enough to ‘take a turn’ in. Ang looks for a different profession. ‘It’s murder,’ says Mick, but his cold sore is better.
WEDNESDAY 14 JUNE: New location: Mompesson House in Salisbury. We are using it for Mrs Jennings’s London house – all exterior scenes, plus the drawing-room, bedroom, hall and breakfastroom scenes. The Lucy-meets-Edward scene has already been shot in Devon. There are only eleven people allowed in any room at one time. I understand the structure needs protection but why eleven? A volunteer stands outside counting and calls out at intervals, ‘Could someone leave, please?’ They’re not keen on us at all. I got four hours’ sleep. Wired, after doing the difficult bit of the Lucy scene last (of course). Base camp has been set up in the car park of Salisbury Cathedral. Kate and I walk through the cathedral grounds to Mompesson. Hardly anyone gives our bonnets and empire lines a second glance. Liver and bacon for lunch after three short scenes all covered in single shots in the bedroom. Good swift work. Lovely fax from Sydney Pollack (executive producer) saying how much he’s enjoying dailies. He’s extraordinary — working like Hercules on his own film, Sabrina, but always finding time to watch our stuff and comment regularly. I’m glad he likes it. During the early stages of the scriptwriting it was he who asked the most useful questions. ‘I’m from Indiana,’ he said; ‘if I get it, everyone gets it.’ He wanted to know why Elinor and Marianne couldn’t just go out and get a job. Why was Edward so dependent on his mother, why he keeps his promise to Lucy when he clearly no longer loves her. Why Elinor keeps her promise to Lucy and does not reveal the engagement even to Marianne. The probity of these people is difficult to accept sometimes – but it is balanced with behaviour of quite the opposite kind from Fanny, Lucy and Willoughby. Elinor and Edward seem both to belong to the eighteenth century, the age of Augustan reason. They are firm, balanced, judgemental, drily humorous, far more Alexander Pope than Walter Scott. Marianne shoots towards the middle of the nineteenth century, embracing each romantic ideal like a new lover. The turn of a century seems always to produce a Janus-like generation, some clinging to old systems, some welcoming the new age. Always a powerful time. As for 1995, hm. Difficult times. Everything more confused than ever for women. Haven’t got the strength to think about it. Back at Trafalgar, we’re doing a carriage scene on a low-loader. This is a vehicle upon which is slung the carriage and the camera together so when it moves, the carriage seems to move. Five more scenes to do today. Kate and I are zombies, smoking, crunching peppermints and drinking water. Only achieved one take in the low-loader – it takes so long to set up. Added difficulty of finding a stretch of country road free from modern articles. Ang rode off on a bicycle and didn’t return. Found him locked in the loo at Trafalgar, having broken the key. He’s being rescued at present. 6.30 p.m. after tea and toast. Still waiting to do our side of the carriage shot. Ang said today, ‘Only three more weeks.’ I said I was planning a breakdown. He nodded and said, ‘The blues – for two weeks, I think.’ Most films take a week of the blues to recover from, he says; this one will take two. I was rather flattered. Seriously, though, I feel I shall never be the same again.
THURSDAY 15 JUNE: Kate did her breakdown scene wonderfully well. In nearly all the weepy scenes I’ve tried to get one good joke. Less indulgent.
FRIDAY 16 JUNE: Doing Elinor’s ‘What do you know of my heart?’ Why did I write a scene with so many words in? Endless. But Mick, Ang and Phil worked through it merrily enough and we managed not to cross the line. I’ve hardly noticed Salisbury but it is exquisite. We sit like a cricket team on the green outside Mompesson. Taramasalata for breakfast. James Schamus is back. Said he rang Columbia’s distribution arm and got our executive’s secretary, who said, ‘Sense or What?’ He’d never heard of us or it. The set infested with tapestries, little circles of women, sewing. Very eighteenth century. Interesting and difficult scene this – getting the level of Elinor’s explosion just right. The level of control. I rely entirely on Ang – I can’t quite get outside it. Pleased so far and hope I can hit it again this p.m. Barely able to eat, stomach knotted. We shoot largely out of sequence, of course – so I’ve already done the loss of control in the last scene, which I tried to make as involuntary as possible. A case of the diaphragm taking over. I remembered going to the bank shortly after my father died to try and sort through his papers. I was feeling perfectly calm and sat in the office talking to the manager when suddenly my diaphragm lurched into action and I was unable to do anything but sob helplessly. Walked home, shoulders heaving, thinking, This is weird, because I couldn’t stop, there was no possibility of controlling it. It’s never happened before or since and was as though the emotion was quite disconnected from actual thought. That was what I wanted to duplicate for the scene when Elinor finds out Edward isn’t married. This moment, though, is much more one of anger – which I’ve always found very difficult. It’s a hotness that’s hard to simulate, a sharp heat. She’s furious with Marianne but hates feeling the anger and doesn’t know quite what to do with it. Like watching someone trying to bottle a genie. In the event I play it several different ways so that during the editing Ang has plenty of choices. He won’t know what the right note is until he sees it in context. This is the real bugger with film – sometimes you cannot tell where to pitch an emotion and the only safe course is to offer up as many alternatives as possible.
SATURDAY 17 JUNE: Hung over again. Got up this morning and could not find my glasses. Finally had to seek assistance. Kate found them inside a flower arrangement. Bags under my eyes purple. Suddenly realised that for five years, every time I’ve finished a job I’ve gone back to rewrite this script. This will be the first time I can actually stop. Take it all in. Weather dull and we’re all a trifle confused because the scene numbers keep changing. Hugh and Greg are playing the blues on their guitars. Raining, of course, so I am doing bastard close-ups on camera with the hangover from hell. Fine but weary and giggly. Later in my trailer, the boys are in to watch the rugby – wild with excitement and very apologetic. South Africa v. France. Apparently it’s very important. Telly dodgy so Hugh has to hold it above his head at a 45-degree angle. They take turns to watch and yell. Tremendous business, sport, really. I wish I could get that worked up about it. Do you have to grow up with it? The boys’ faces lit up with pleasure and excitement, it’s really very inspiring, she said, sounding a hundred and four.
SUNDAY 18 JUNE : Watched Blind Date and picked my feet.
MONDAY 19 JUNE: Delaford picnic scene outside at Trafalgar. Ang delighted with a large pile of Melton Mowbray pork pies which he calls pork buns. A holiday atmosphere in this wonderful weather but we are really up against it. Schedule changed again today as we desperately try to cram all the remaining material into the Salisbury section. Ten weeks have gone – hard to believe I’ll be home on Sunday. Finished picnic. Huzzah. Now we move indoors to do the scene where Brandon watches Marianne making a silhouette of Willoughby. Very hard to light but Willoughby’s profile behind the screen is effectively erotic. I wasn’t hungry at lunchtime and am now reduced to eating leftover mince from someone’s plate and fudge. People have started to talk about the wrap party. Christ. Two and a half weeks yet and a lot of big scenes so I’m in no mood for count-down. Maybe we’ll have a live band . . . Chinese food? Thinks.
TUESDAY 20 JUNE: Much to do. Tension. The sun yesterday produced vicious red welts on everyone, like jellyfish stings. Most sinister, I thought. Bed with a roll-up, a beer and a sleeping pill last night. Not the happiest combination. Did ‘intolerable woman’ very quickly at 9.15 a.m. and continued p.m. into Brandon’s first entrance. Strain telling on me today. Pronounced around the eyes so of course we did a stills session. Ha. The day of a thousand shots. Gemma fainted twice. Affected by fumes from the generator, we think, plus corsets, heat and airlessness. Paul had to give her fifteen minutes’ oxygen the second time. Terrifying. Ang hanging in rags. I’ve got low blood pressure and cystitis. Excellent. Alan was very moving. He’s played Machiavellian types so effectively that it’s a thrill to see him expose the extraordinary sweetness in his nature. Sad, vulnerable but weighty presence. Brandon is, I suppose, the real hero of this piece but he has to grow on the audience as he grows on Marianne. Making the male characters effective was one of the biggest problems. In the novel, Edward and Brandon are quite shadowy and absent for long periods. We had to work hard to keep them present even when they’re offscreen. Willoughby is really the only male who springs out in three dimensions (a precursor to her other charm-merchants, Frank Churchill in Emma, Wickham in Pride and Prejudice and Henry Crawford in Mansfield Park).
WEDNESDAY 21 JUNE: Fitful sleep. So many scenes, so many words. Kept waking with them all trudging about in my brain. It is, of course, very cloudy as we need sun and have no more weather cover for this location. We are trying to do the ‘Mr F’ dining-room scene in a single morning. Chris thinks the impossibility of it will speed things up. Gemma a bit fragile today but better. Bleached moustache. Ten set-ups achieved in four hours. Lay down at lunchtime and was pronounced clinically dead by most of the ADs. Sun has come out, so we’re on to the second half of the Delaford picnic scene. Triumph. Threw Laurie Borg in swimming pool after unit still (photograph of cast and entire crew). Much satisfaction all round. Being production manager is no fun. Bed 9.30. Woken at midnight by fucking Morris dancers outside. It’s midsummer’s night, and they’re giving it hop on the roundabout outside the pub. I know it’s a marvellous tradition and all that but it seems to lose a great deal in translation. Didn’t there used to be something Pagan about it? Looks like something John Major designed. Damn them for waking me.
THURSDAY 22 JUNE: Back in Salisbury car park with many horses, and extras for the scene outside Mrs J’s house. Still can’t believe what we achieved yesterday. Beauteous day on the village green, just grand. Takes ages to re-set everyone, so getting lines wrong becomes hugely bad news. A gaggle of schoolchildren come and watch. Mompesson sits there like an etching. Noon. Finish scene with Alan. Me: ‘Oh! I’ve just ovulated.’ Alan {long pause): ‘Thank you for that.’ James says it looks as if we have the carriage gridlock scene back. It’s been a hostage to time and budget all the way through but it is very important to Ang. He also said that the extra energy required from everyone at present to get the scenes done just makes them better. I whirled on him. ‘Don’t say that!’ I wailed. It makes you feel the rest of it has been under par. Ate a lunch that consisted almost entirely of fat and had to lie down, comatose. Very crowded today, and hundreds of spectators on the green, who are very well-behaved and seemingly interested in watching a bunch of men in shorts carrying lamps about and laying cables. Humans are rather enchanting sometimes. I get into present-giving mode, which is worrisome. Need the filming to stop so I can go shopping . . .
FRIDAY 23 JUNE: Everything moving at wild pace so that we can get to the Brandon confession scene first thing tomorrow. Rather bracing and good. Tension gone. Mrs Jennings’s parrot makes its first appearance. It’s an English parrot, George. Vicious beak action. There’s something intrinsically funny about a parrot. They have a baleful air that suggests that nothing you did could ever impress them. I wrote a new line for Liz: ‘Ah, Pooter. Still alive, I see,’ which she delivered impeccably. Ang’s family is back. He looks very happy. Tide has presumably come in and stayed in. Script meeting at lunchtime on the big Brandon scene. Home soon. Ma says all my plants are dead. We sit on the green and eat ice cream in the afternoon, watched by the curious. There’s a school sports day on by the car park and a most unexpectedly rally of Morgan sports cars in the cathedral grounds. And a film crew on the green . . . English life roaming on in a very E. M. Forster fashion all about us. John Major has threatened to resign. Perhaps to devote more time to Morris dancing? It’s the first bit of news I’ve heard for months. Realise how entirely I have been living in this world. 8 p.m. Dye roots with Jan.
SATURDAY 24 JUNE: Alarm startled me deeply. Was in a dream about mushroom soup. 9.30 a.m. and I’m still dreaming. A good calm feel and start to the day. Wonderful to have Alan, in whom one can so trust. We tried to create a space in which he can move at will, so this scene has its own life and we don’t interfere too much. The story of Brandon, Eliza and Beth is really like a penny dreadful but Alan manages to bring such a depth of pain to it – and it’s shocking within this world suddenly to hear of pregnancy and early death and betrayal. Lindsay drove in with me and spoke of her worries concerning the love stories – so little time to set them up. Really the sisters’ lovers spend so much time off screen – and neither is ever seen acting like a lover. Prevented by circumstance – so it’s all implication. Very difficult balance to strike – for then one has to accept Elinor’s pain about losing Edward so much later. The balance will very much lie in the editing, of course. It’s frightening to think we might have enough of Edward and Brandon and Willoughby. At least we know that over the years we’ve tried everything bringing Edward back in the middle (which didn’t work as there was nothing for him to do), seeing Brandon and Willoughby fight the duel (which only seemed to subtract from the mystery), bringing Willoughby back at the end: a wonderful scene in the novel which unfortunately interfered too much with the Brandon love story. I wrote hundreds of different versions and it was in and out of the script like the hokey-cokey. Everyone reacts variously to leaving location and going home. It’s both a relief and a strain after all this time. It means the family unit is split up as everyone returns to their usual homes and routines. It is bizarre how film units become large extended families in which everyone has a role. You know whom to go to for what. Roll-ups from Sid, bread pudding from Al, a hug from Mick, wit and wisdom from Lindsay, calm from Ang, female philosophy from Morag, sound advice from Jan – and to some extent this disintegrates when people go home and resume their genuine family roles. There’s a sadness to finishing on location, therefore. But of course the only reason we assume these roles is because we miss familial comfort and affection. Once home, many people become more relaxed. It’s a strange balance, this life. Lindsay appears in her maid’s outfit. She’s appearing as a servant in this scene. I take her through curtsying. She begs not to have to speak. We’re going to make her. They’re still lighting. A big master and then coverage. Trying to avoid windows. Didn’t start shooting till 11.30. There’ll be mutiny if we’re not out by six as everyone is exhausted and there’s only one day off and three different London locations on Monday. Did first bit of scene. Ang distinctly underwhelmed by me. A very grumpy crew worked on till 8.45. Alan brilliant. Goodbye, Salisbury. Goodbye, location. Hello, London.
SUNDAY 2 5 AND MONDAY 26 JUNE: A weekend! At home. Not on camera on Monday and took day off. Felt guilty. Crooned over plants. Cooked a meal. Trailed round house picking things up and putting them down again. Couldn’t settle to anything.
TUESDAY 27 JUNE: Greenwich. Strange to be at large in London. Traffic and spectators all over the place. Intensely irritating day – people everywhere, Film ’95 (TV show), Premiere magazine interview and endless personal visits which, although pleasant, are hard to fit into the scheme of things. It’s alarming to discover how insular you become making a film. Strangers on set can make me feel quite savage sometimes. I don’t know why – protectiveness, possibly? Personal dramas everywhere. Very hot. Coffee-shop scene with Harriet, Richard and James – they were wonderful. I rushed about correcting posture of extras, making a nuisance of myself and smelling. Hugh G. in a spot of bother up LA, apparently. Something to do with a blow job. It’s all right for some, I thought.
WEDNESDAY 2 8 JUNE: Little sleep. Left early to watch line-up with Tom Wilkinson (Mr Dashwood) and Gem. The first scene of the movie, therefore vital, and I wanted to be there. Tom has watched a lot of people die and spoke of their detachment. Very true. Day off otherwise. Saw Chris Hampton, who was testing explosions for The Secret Agent (his next film). He wants the biggest one (surprise). Now we wait – they’ve had to remove a wall because the action takes place both in the room and in the corridor leading to it and the camera needs more space to contain it. It’s good we’re in studio for everyone’s tired and it is of course easier to control the space and light. All in good spirits, though, and Shepperton feels busy. Hugh G. is all over the papers – who attack with typically hypocritical glee and are enjoying themselves horribly. Have written to him. Shepperton dressing rooms slightly ropy. Old pube-infested soap in bathroom and no towels. I’ve got a telephone, which is a great luxury, and a view of some cars, some corrugated iron and some scaffolding. Very London. Me (after six hours’ waiting for line-up): ‘I’m off. I hate waiting when I’m not working.’ Lindsay: ‘Most women wait. I just found a way to make a living out of it . . .’ Gem: ‘She had very big lips, that hooker . . . Bet it was a good blow job.’ Boiling heat.
THURSDAY 2 9 JUNE: Still boiling. Decided to have Dr Harris bleed Marianne. Adds to edge. Shepperton shimmering in the heat. Difficult to sustain this tense mood. Kate’s drained by playing illness. Very great build-up to ‘do not leave me alone’. I shall be very glad when it’s over. Reached shot 500. According to tradition, champagne (courtesy of Lindsay) was served – at lunch, so none of us could drink it. Felt bleak about losing Morag for the last week (she goes on, with Alan, to do Michael Collins). But Sallie (Jaye, make-up artiste and genuine wit) will do me and we’ll laugh a lot. She says she is planning a few changes. Possibly a beard. Very shaky today. Long wait after lunch for Colonel Brandon’s ‘What can I do?’ scene. Nice shot but a tense affair. Long chat about the line ‘Barton is but eight hours away’, which made me tetchy. Ang said that logically and given the light in the shots, this would be too long a journey. ‘It’s been in the script for years,’ I snapped, unhelpfully. ‘Couldn’t we have had this conversation in 1993?’ Lindsay was very calm and solved it brilliantly, I thought, with ‘Barton is but a day from Cleveland’. Consumed vast numbers of sandwiches and sweated freely.
FRIDAY 30 JUNE: 8 a.m. already stocious in make-up. We’re shooting the near-death of Marianne today. Premenstrual tension strikes me and the temperature is going to be in the mid-90s. No air conditioning in the studio. Horrible feeling of constriction in chest and unable to sit or be still. Longing for the scene to be over. 9.30 a.m. Still lighting. I pace and contemplate Elinor’s rigidity and how to play this version of her loss of control. Terrifying for her. Did waking-up scene and the whispered ‘Elinor’ from Marianne. My stiff neck came in very useful. Dr Harris bleeding her adds about three hours to the day. Ang has got excited about the shot. Elinor carries a bowl of her sister’s blood into the darkness. It will take forever to light. But it’s close to midday and three set-ups left to do. Sitting cross-legged against the radiator thinking about swimming in very blue salty water. Think I must try not to cry but it might be difficult. Waiting for lighting. Like waiting for the tumbril. Or an exam. The sun outside and construction noise make me feel inexpressibly melancholy. Frightened, too. 5.15 p.m. That’s the close shot over with. Interesting, as it all came out very vulnerable and scared. A child begging. Much better, I think, than adult held-in sobs. I hope it was the right way. Very little I can do about it now. Ang says he’s never seen me in such a bad mood. ‘It’s like trying to talk to a bear,’ he said. All over now and I’m back to normal.
SATURDAY 1 JULY: Put back out. Old injury from Me and My Girl days. Lumbar region goes into spasm. Fuck. Fuckity fuck.
SUNDAY 2 JULY : Carriage gridlock scene. This is a scene that Ang has always wanted passionately – where we see Mrs Jennings, Lucy, Elinor and Marianne arriving at the ballroom (the interiors of which we’ve already shot at Wilton). He wanted to see a jam of carriages — so many that they have to alight quite far from the entrance and pick their way through the mud and horse dung to the door. Evening. Pissing down. Tried to deal with back. Acupuncture, frozen spinach, Indocid (a muscle-relaxant) and wailing. Am falling apart. Presents from Harriet, James and Liz. It really is finishing. Rather tearful, the lot of us. Pleased it’s raining – it suggests ballroom will be steaming and smell of wet wool. For reasons known only to themselves, the caterers did a Spanish evening – paella. This will be a wonderful shot and then it’s bed with my back drugs. I smoke in an empty trailer. The papers full of Liz and Hugh in a most revolting and upsetting way. Was reading Dennis Potter’s last interview with Melvyn Bragg. He said he’d like to shoot Rupert Murdoch. He can’t now, but I could. In the absence of an ashtray I sit flicking my ash on to the carpet. I am a slut.
MONDAY 3 JULY: New location in Rotherhithe. Church scene. (‘They always kneel.’) Iced back. Slept well. Started to write farewell cards, which is making me cry. Threw minor tantrum in make-up bus, which was sans kettle, and shrieked that there was a week of major scenes to do and it’s not over yet. Hanging about waiting for the carriage mock-up to arrive (a false interior constructed on a low-loader so we can just shoot through the windows). It’s stuck on Tower Bridge. Debbie Kaye said that last night’s scene was the biggest done with horses and carriages in the UK for twenty years. I sit in empty trailer drinking tea, smoking, tending to back. Feel like getting in a taxi and going away for a week’s lie-down. Grey cold day in the East End. The journey through London fascinating. You forget what a vast farrago it is and how ancient. I lead, I am reminded, a sheltered life in North London – a remark I made about my mother to her face when I was seventeen. Why she didn’t thump me I’ll never know. Back exercises. Hobble about geriatically and beg for sympathy. No one cares. They’re making a film. Feeling very emotional. Hardly a surprise; this journey – or this bit of it, at any rate – coming to an end is unthinkable and amazing. I will carry on, of course, with Lindsay, Ang, James and Pat Doyle and all the postproduction folk. But so many leave us – Mick, Phil, the fantastic camera department. A bunch of nicer men you could not hope to find. Losing Morag already was hard. Waving goodbye to each of the actors in turn is always difficult. O Christ. Drink a lot of water. Lie down. Shut up. We’ve been waiting three hours now — for two bits of wood on a trailer. Kate’s on loo talking to me. She’s lost her Columbia dressing gown. Yvonne (our dresser – and a fabulous rock-and-roll singer) says she knows this one’s mine ‘because there’s a large food stain down the front’. 6.30 p.m. I’ve finished my bit and have gone to look at the tenements. These do not, of course, appear in the book but we’re experimenting with a new point of view – Brandon’s as he comes to find his missing ward. It might be interesting to see a moment’s worth of the pain and misery Austen refused to dwell on. On the other hand it might destroy some kind of unity. No idea. Pat Doyle is appearing, with cold sores and a dog.
TUESDAY 4 JULY: Shepperton. About to do my entrance shot. Sal suggested a nice blue eye shadow. I managed to talk her out of it. Very difficult scene for Gem just now, who was saintly about it. I was irritating and interfered. Home nineish. Acupuncture.
WEDNESDAY 5 JULY: Back hurts. Lots to do. Did eleven takes – the family scenes are so much more difficult to capture than the emotional stuff. Primary emotions like anger, fear and sorrow, even happiness, are a doddle in comparison with an exchange of dialogue that makes Elinor and Marianne, for instance, genuinely appear to be sisters. An ordinariness, a familiarity that is profoundly elusive. No acting, actually, is what it amounts to. Turning round, then we move on to the bedroom scene, which I pray to God we finish. I think I’ve written all my cards. It’s worse than Christmas. After lunch I’m in rags (my hair) and I feel I should do the rest of the day in a Southern American accent. At present confined to quarters producing prop letters with a quill for the close-up writing shots. Good not to be in a corset. Already 5 p.m. and three shots to go. Difficult to get right – an odd mixture of teasing and serious. I’m concentrating too hard on Kate and her bits and being rather bad in my own. Mick lighting away for my closeup. I keep wandering backwards and forwards shouting, ‘Ready!’ Drives him mad. Weather’s turned out nice and I’m having a roll-up. Started to smoke it outside but Becca told me my nightie was see-through so I’ve had to come back in.
THURSDAY 6 JULY: Kate and I inadvertently drank too much so I was up at five. Wrapping bloody presents. Mother’s birthday. I cut a peculiarly loud rose from front garden and shoved it through her door. Back better. Feels less fragile. Lindsay in to say that the scene with Gemma was not lit to Mick’s liking and we’ll have to shoot it again. Ooer. Kate and I in right old state doing ‘Dearest Papa’ – frightening and too emotional, at least for this old bag. Too much emotion slopping about anyway, never mind playing scenes about dead fathers and dying sisters. Kate was calling up some tears and I whispered, ‘This will be over soon and we’ll be parted.’ We immediately both burst into loud sobs. Having a widdle and a roll-up to recover. Hot in that studio – good grief. Last shot on Oliver Ford-Davies (Dr Harris) to complete deathbed sequence and then moving on to tenements which I’m not in. Phil had a go at preventing my escape. ‘Oh, I think you should be there – as writer,’ he said, twinkling. ‘Fuck off,’ I replied, elegantly. Wrap has begun with the arrival of an amazing eighteenth-century cushion from Mr Rickman.
FRIDAY 7 JULY: Last day of shoot. Driving in to Shepperton at 6.30 a.m. squashed into the back of the car with all the presents and a unicycle between my knees (it’s for Bernie, who, contrary to appearances, is a wild thing). Very successful morning doing Christmas. Ang very moving – loved his tea caddy but would have been happy with a teabag. Hugged me for a long time in silence. Everyone weepy. Sun’s come out. I lie down and listen to sounds of construction. We’re all down at Kempton Park Racecourse now. Hot. Picnicky and fun. Last shot for me was at 7.30 p.m. Slate 549. In the carriage. Alan’s got Wimbledon on. I didn’t even know it was Wimbledon. It’s the women’s final. I cast aside my sweat-soaked corset in some relief while Kate collapses on the grass. She cries. I beg for alcohol. 10.15 p.m. Off home. Finished on Take 5 of Slate 550. A shot of Alan cantering against the sunset. The camera is inside a large gyroscopic white sphere, hung off the end of a small crane attached to a truck. Quite by accident I got a place on the back of the truck and witnessed the final take of the shoot go down, followed by the sun. Then we ate hamburgers and rubbery chips and drank champagne and there was much love around. People very moved. Lindsay and Laurie cried. I just grinned from ear to ear all evening. All within Elinor’s breast was strong, silent satisfaction (it’s in the book).
SUNDAY 9 JULY: Real life kicks in. Weird. Fantastic wrap party. Ang gave a Chinese banquet. We sang to him. He spoke to me for some time about the joy of his job. For everyone, it’s been uniquely happy. I am in a right old state of gratitude. Now cooking Lindsay’s last meal in the UK and drinking beer. Danced all night, despite back. Hugh Laurie’s band played. Laurie Borg cried again. Stayed till the end. Home four-ish.
APPENDICES
THE PRIZE-WINNING LETTER WRITTEN BY IMOGEN STUBBS (See Diaries, 7th April)
Dear Elinor,
Robert and I have been enjoying a splendid weekend with the Prince Regent, with whom, I declare, I feel quite at home, and who is a veritable gentleman towards we ladies. He has called me ‘sumptuous’ and ‘frivolous’ by turns all weekend, and even remarked on my famous curls – enquiring whether ‘God did all’ or did they require ‘feminine assistance’? How we laughed! My dear Elinor – 1 feel the time has come to have a little discussion about the past, but before I begin, do tell – how are your precious family? Is poor, pale Marianne happy now with the marvellously competent, mature husband? I shall never forget the pathetic lachrymosity (my! the vocabulary one acquires in ‘society’) of her warbling, when that wretched scoundrel left her innocent, trusting self for material advantage. Well – he must live with his shame. We can be grateful for that at least. Is darling Margaret behaving herself? I do so miss her mischievous ways, and have quite forgiven her the time when she placed a beetle in my soup, and then laughed fit to burst as I was carried upstairs in a faint. How could she know how close I was to choking to death? How could she know how deeply affected I was by the experience? How could she know at that tender age that one day I might be in a position to offer her assistance financially, or an entry into polite society, and might not care to forget such behaviour? I jest – and for proof, enclose a bonnet-ribbon to prettify that sweet, homely face. Has Mrs Jennings managed to lose weight, and has your mother gained any? If only a doctor could cut pieces off one person and transfer them to another, how content we should be! For my own part, I should like to have my face pinned into my hair to remove the creases, and restore even more girlish grace than thankfully is still in residence. Robert says I am like a pretty cottage door, with roses growing about it (my curls, you see). He is quite the poet – and outshines that melancholic drear man Cowper any day, don’t you think? Enough of moi. Edward looked rather forlorn when we met you in the arcade, I felt. And I see the grey hair is galloping apace. But he is a good soul, and very kind, and I am sure the life of a Rector is nourishing his spirit, if not his body. Our little Alphonse said she thought Uncle Edward ‘thutch a thweetheart’ (she has an adorable lisp), ‘because he hath a thmile like Thuki’. Thuki (Suki) is her pet spaniel (thpaniel) and does indeed resemble Edward – including the hair on his ears, and that silly wart under his chin. Is she not clever to notice the comparison? Dearest Elinor – 1 gather you pine for children, and in this area there may be problems. Fear not-you can share my five (especially little Alphonse) and, I do sincerely believe, one can glean as much joy from a pet dog or a garden. Have you tried fennel? I gather this can help fertility, although, perhaps, you are too old to reap the benefits of this particular remedy. Perhaps God will intervene especially since Edward is in such frequent contact with him! Oh, I must tell you – the Prince has just popped his head round the corner and invited me for a midnight drive. Should I go? If only you were here to advise me . . . I am in quite a fluster. Do I wear my fur or my velvet? I shall picture your dear self and I am sure the right choice will float across my eyes. I do feel that I have come home here. It is quite odd. Perhaps I was a royal personage in a former life. Whatever – it fits me like a glove. Now to our discussion. I feel rather frightened – as if I were opening my heart to a governess or to an irritable seagull intent on pecking out my eyes. Not that I intend any comparison – the fault is in my imagination, which Robert says is too fanciful for my own good. No, no – if you were a bird, Elinor, you would be a lovely wise owl a-brooding on your branch – whereas I see myself as more of a Jenny Wren. As for Edward, he is a duck-billed platypus with those absurd flat feet and his honking great nose. How is his sinusitis, by the way? It seemed to preoccupy him a great deal too much for his own good; but it must be awful if one lives in damp conditions, as I fear you do. When we first met, Elinor, I confided in you (who became like a sister to me) of my engagement to Edward, and the impossible circumstances which surrounded the liaison. Had I known your feelings for him at the time I should never have embarked on such a tactless communication. Indeed, I know you will believe me when I say that such is my nature, I should have renounced him at once had I known this would have given you the happiness you sought. I must therefore chastise you for never conveying your true emotions to me, and choosing to lie to me rather than treat me as your confidante. But I forgive you – and enclose the rather soiled handkerchief which I believe was a great source of concern when, in my innocence, I chanced to have necessity of it. It was given to me by Edward in the foolish passion of his youth which has now waned with age, along with the kerchief. For my part, I found his brother the man I sought – and will never regret my decision to give my Edward the fate he deserved. Money has never been my concern – how can one miss what one has never known? Although I believe we are not poor, I seek simple pleasures, and look for heaven for my rewards. As for Edward’s mother – I need not have feared. She loves me as the daughter she never knew, and has a great weakness for my pastries. She has a great love of wrapping presents, which I share, and many is the happy hour we spend together, wrapping and chatting like schoolgirls. So I wish you every happiness, Elinor. And never, never feel distressed about your dishonesty towards me, nor your deception of Edward. All is forgiven and forgotten – and love repairs all damage. The worst thing that could befall either yourself or Edward would be to let an oppressed conscience dull your natural charm. Enjoy what life remains to you both, unencumbered by the patter of tiny feet.
Yours lovingly, Lucy
PS. Robert sends warm regards to what he humorously calls ‘The Wrecktory’ (referring, of course, to the tragedy of your poor orchard after the gale).
PPS. Purple is a dainty colour for a skin like yours.
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 2 - Emma Thompson
- Kate Winslet
- Ang Lee
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