WEDNESDAY 5 JULY: Back hurts. Lots to do. Did eleven takes - the family scènes 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 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 scène, 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 close-up. 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 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 scène 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 scènes 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 [Alan] Rickman.
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