In his first diary entry, the Welsh director catches up with Sigourney Weaver in New York 

Hello. I wasn't sure what I would write about in this diary. It's been over six months now since I finished my last film, Trauma, and it screened at the Sundance Film Festival to a rather mixed response. And it will be a few weeks yet before it is released here in the UK (on 27th August 2004- pray for rain!).

In the meantime not much has happened. I have been busying myself, more in hope than expectation, trying to set up my next film. A rather mundane process, to be honest, which can feel like wading through treacle while somebody keeps moving the goalposts! Days turn into weeks and weeks go by without much discernible treacle displacement... but then, occasionally, something actually happens to make you believe that the improbable is actually possible. And so it was this week.

"Alan Rickman has committed to play the lead"

For the 'indie' British producer (ie most), it is a given that the castle of dreams cannot be stormed. Therefore stealth is the only option. And so this trip to New York is part of an assault by stealth, the main purpose being to meet Sigourney Weaver in person to talk about the script.

Persistence with the agent to make this meeting happen has only been possible because the client likes the script, and we have ascertained that Sigourney is definitely "interested" in playing the female lead, Linda. But "interested" is a hard emotion to gauge from across the Atlantic and August looms. So it is with great relief and excitement that we are able to make this informal meeting with Sigourney to discuss the project, face to face, on 30th July. OK, we are cutting it fine, but suddenly, some progress on the project seems possible.

Hitting a humid New York with jet lag is a shock to the system. Especially as I am staying at the Holiday Inn, Midtown, situated in what is known as Hell's Kitchen. In mid-summer this place certainly lives up to its name, all infernal noise and heat (imagining the snowy landscape of the film is difficult!).

"Ms Weaver is as charming as you would hope"

By the time lunch is over, I cannot imagine anybody else playing the lead role. Back on the street my head is spinning with excitement and expectation. I immediately call the producers, Gina Carter and Andrew Eaton at Revolution. Sigourney's interest has given the project terrific impetus and the various meetings that follow with prospective financiers in New York seem all the easier because I am able to talk with confidence about our lead cast. This is how films are made, through a combination of diligence and stealth. And some serendipity. In this case, Alan Rickman's ambassadorial talents have been key.

Timing, of course, is everything, but it sure helps to have a good script. By Saturday night I am in (premature) celebratory mood and meet up with a friend (Matthew Penry-Davey, the first assistant director on Trauma), who is working in New York on a big Nicolas Cage film [Lord Of War]. We go and see M Night Shyamalan's new film, The Village. Amongst its stellar cast is... Sigorney Weaver. What a strange looking glass world this can be! But I am soon absorbed in the film, which is beautifully executed, well acted and everything a Hollywood film should be. It is also a creepy parable of contemporary society.

It relies heavily on a twist so I won't discuss the plot here, but thematically it seems to me to be dealing with the idea that it is fear that keeps society together. It reminds me that genre films, at their best, can be just as effective in dealing with big ideas as documentaries or other kinds of drama.

The film stays with us as we walk back out into the heat of Hell's Kitchen and leads us inevitably to talk about Trauma and its imminent release. I guess that in my next instalment I should tell you a little more about that. By which time I should be back in London.

In his second entry, Marc apologises to horror fans...

Here I am back in London, at a secret location. Hiding from the genre police. Why are they after me? For crimes against genre. For general wayward behaviour and sloppy thinking. And suspicion of fraud. You'd think it was high treason the way some of them are talking. But then, the genre-istas can be pretty scary when they get going. I have tried protesting my innocence but they won't listen...

It all started with My Little Eye. An experimental film really, having been rejected by the studio (Universal) it became a firm favourite with certain horror fans who love to champion a lost cause. The boys from aint-it-cool-news.com gave it the thumbs up after a midnight screening in Toronto, and once it had screened to the British horror hard core at London's Fright Fest, its acceptance as a bona fide genre film was assured. I have never really analysed how this happened - except that it gamely delivered five gruesome deaths and was visually and sonically unpleasant throughout. I guess it had the right combination of cynicism and scariness. In other words, dude, it rocked!

"There's been disappointment and disgust"

The truth is that Trauma and My Little Eye started life exactly the same way: as experiments, explorations if you like, of theme as well as story. If My Little Eye looked at its world "objectively" by means of the all-seeing webcams, Trauma attempts to do the exact opposite by looking at the world subjectively, through the distorted vision of its main character, Ben (played wonderfully by Colin Firth). Ben is in every scene of the film and it is his view of reality that the film is trying to portray. But who is Ben? Is he reliable? Should we trust his view of the world? Is he sad, bad, or mad?

For me, the joy of making Trauma (and it was fun!) was being able to explore these ideas with Colin Firth in front of the camera and John Mathieson behind it. Although better-known for his work with Ridley Scott on films such as the epic Gladiator, John is also responsible for more intimate, internal films like John Maybury's Love And The Devil, a film that made a huge impression on me with its warped, visceral imagery. For Colin, John, and myself, the attraction of Richard Smith's Trauma script was very much the ambiguous tone and texture of the world he evoked and the elusive nature of his characters. And although the material was pretty dark, we did not consciously set out to make a horror film. I think we just followed our noses.

"It is not, nor ever was, a straight horror film"

Perhaps as filmmakers we should not concern ourselves with categorising our own work, perhaps that is the job of critics and commentators. On the other hand we want our films to be seen, so it is only reasonable that we think about our audience, and the studios in particular are obsessed with identifying who they are and what they want. Once a film is completed, there are practical things that must be considered - the poster, the trailer, the press releases, etc - and there are many choices to be made along the way. We can either stick our head in the sand or try and engage with this process.

So, for what it's worth, I shall venture an opinion of my own regarding Trauma and say that it is not, nor ever was, a straight horror film. In truth, it does not fit neatly into any genre, which is hopefully what makes it, er, rock. I would like to think that Trauma belongs to an honourable tradition of strange, psychological tales that defy exact definition. Most of my favourite films fall into this category (a random selection might include Nic Roeg's Don't Look Now, Todd Haynes' Safe, David Lynch's Mulholland Drive, and Andrey Zvyagintsev's The Return).

Like most directors, I suppose, I try and make films that I would like to go and see myself. It's as simple as that. Whether I succeed or not is, of course, a completely a different matter. And if, occasionally, I upset some loyal followers it's a risk I have to take.

So, how should we sell Trauma to the world? We showed it to Mark Kermode, who has indeed been loyal over the years and who is a dyed-in-the wool horror fan. He said this: "My Little Eye was a red poster film, Trauma is a blue poster film." Which I think says it all! Hopefully that will keep the genre police off my back for another week. If so, I'll see you then.

PS: If you're in Manchester and would like to see some of the films mentioned above check out the Trauma-tised season at the Cornerhouse. Dude..

In his third entry, Marc endures a public screening of Trauma...

Week three and I'm in Edinburgh. I get around a bit, for an unemployed person. Being Welsh, and from Cardiff, I am deeply envious of the Scots for having Edinburgh as their capital city. You come out of Waverley Station and it hits you, in a wave of cold Scottish air: that vista, the castle, the granite, the architecture, climbing up the hill like one of those landscapes in a Renaissance painting. A city of such dramatic beauty. One of the most beautiful in Europe, I think. And the pubs are open all night. I suppose it's only fair that they have bagpipes.

"It has personality and panache"

I am here for the 58th Edinburgh Film Festival - the oldest continuous festival in Europe, as I am informed by a proud Scotsman. Actually, the Venice Film Festival is older (started by Mussolini!) and so is Cannes, but Edinburgh is the oldest one that's uninterrupted. Frankly, the historical details don't matter because for me, begrudging Welshman though I am, the Edinburgh Film Fest is the best. It manages to be both friendly and exciting at the same time, it feels Scottish, British and International. It has personality and panache... enough praise already? I think so. I suppose it's only fair that they have bagpipes.

I first came to the Edinburgh Film Festival, with a film, in 1997 I think. House Of America is a bleak/funny melodrama set in the South Wales Valleys. It was shot by the French cinematographer Pierre Aim, who also shot La Haine (pictured), which has just been re-released (go and see it, it's brilliant). We had a great time. Then came My Little Eye in 2002. We had an even better time. Now I am here with Trauma and Colin Firth has come too. And so has Tommy Flanagan, who plays his best friend in the film. Mr Darcy and the Flying Scotsman - international star and local hero. What will it be like?

Well, the fact that Colin has come changes everything. The screening sold out weeks ago, women swoon, girls giggle, bulbs flash. There is a red carpet, there are television interviews, all that kind of stuff. And I have to stand next to these two impressive specimens: Colin with his tall, upright English poise, and Tommy with his equally tall, Scottish street cred. And me. Feeling shorter, wider, older, Welsher. But if I'm honest, it's all a bit exciting.

There's an atmosphere of celebration, expectation, goodwill towards our film. As my last diary entry suggested, I have spent a lot of time worrying about what our film is NOT. Worrying that it's NOT 'genre' enough. NOT commercial enough. NOT... good enough. But bringing the film to a festival is an opportunity to show it to an adventurous, enthusiastic audience. And the fact that the cinema is full before the lights go down makes the viewing experience all the more intense. Theoretically. FADE TO (ALMOST) BLACK.

"It is a thoroughly humiliating experience"

With the glitz and the excitement over, it is suddenly lonely in the dark. I spend half the time not looking at the screen at all but watching the audience as they watch the film, interpreting every cough, rustle and change of body position as a sign of disapproval or disdain. Never has the shift of an itchy arse had so much significance! God forbid that somebody should shuffle apologetically along the row and then speed up the aisle towards the exit. TENSION REIGNS. If they reappear it signifies a weak bladder. If they don't, then what? All those bad 'D' words. Disapproval. Disdain. Disappointment. Disillusionment. Derision.

On the rare occasion that my eyes actually stray onto the screen, what do I see? A film? OH NO! What I see is a series of shots, disconnected, meaningless and false. Reminding me of bad decisions made in the cutting room, mistakes made during shooting. So much for suspension of disbelief. It is a thoroughly humiliating, demoralising experience. Who could possibly have made this heap of utter garbage unfolding before my eyes (surely not me!). Why haven't more people left the cinema, under the slim pretext of a weak bladder? The darkness is unbearable.

So I take the weak bladder option myself, sneaking out into the carpeted neon purgatory of the foyer and then into the bar, for a steadying drink, for contemplation in solitude about whether in fact I have chosen the right career. I arrive, head bowed, then look up to see... a collection of similarly lost souls. The producers, the actors, everyone in fact who was involved in the film. All similarly perplexed by the viewing experience! All similarily reassessing their careers! All clutching a drink.

So we drink, like sullen truants, until finally we are summoned back to the arena of pain for a Q&A with the baying audience. Actually they are applauding politely as we enter, but that's a front. Colin (tall, elegant) and me (even shorter now due to bad posture) on stage, facing the impressively eloquent Mark Kermode (see last week's diary). We are sitting on stools like an aged boy band, clutching microphones. People are staring. Surely I am in some kind of anxiety dream. Or horror film. How did I get here? I don't know. Through a haze of self-doubt there's a vaguely audible question. It's aimed at me: "So, Marc, what made you want to make this film?" A good question. A bloody good question. What indeed. SILENCE. FADE TO BLACK. THE SOUND OF BAGPIPES.

In his fourth entry, Marc is bombarded with questions...

Questions, questions, it's been a week of questions. First there was the premiere at Edinburgh (see last week's diary) and then screenings at the NFT and Manchester Cornerhouse, all followed by a Q&A session. Then came the press junket in London. A thoroughgoing investigation into the world of Trauma! A cathartic process in some respects and occasionally fun. But you do get tired of "talking a good game", and bored with the sound of your own voice. Shouldn't a film speak for itself?

"Colin is funny, open and honest"

There are some other 'celebs' out there who might do well to understand the value of UNDER-EXPOSURE. But I suppose it's a question of outlook, on whether they see themselves as actors who have achieved celebrity or as celebrities who act. The reality is that every decision a celebrity makes contributes towards their image, good or bad; it's a velvet trap.

The questions fired at Colin by audiences over the last week have been sometimes banal ("Were those ants real?"), but have more often revealed a detailed (obsessive?) knowledge of his career - for example, his role in Martin Donovan's 1988 film Apartment Zero has come up a few times, and on one occasion even his appearance in the TV drama Master Of The Moor - which I directed over ten years ago. In other words, they have been well-meaning and well-informed.

Better informed than some of the journalists, who have expressed surprise at his choice of the role of Ben. A career departure, surely, and very different from what he has done before? Well, NO ACTUALLY! Look at some of his work before and after Darcy and you will see he has played a whole range of disenchanted, alienated outsiders: in Another Country (1984) and A Month In The Country (1987), for example, and in the TV dramas Tumbledown and Conspiracy. For every Bridget Jones's Diary there has been darker stuff. (His next project, Where The Truth Lies, to be directed by Canada's Atom Egoyan, sounds very much in this vein.)

"Stars get movies made"

It is surprising, then, that so many journalists have suggested that Ben must be "a bit of a stretch" for Colin. As if playing an alienated art school dropout living in today's London is so much harder than playing an 18th century aristocrat who owned half of England and rode around on a horse! He is actually closer to Ben than the roles that have made him famous. Ben lives in Hackney, as Colin did before he became successful. He is an art school dropout, as Colin Firth might have become had he not found himself a career. OK, you'd need to swap that for drama school dropout, but you get my drift. In his own words, "there by the grace of God go I!".

Which brings me on to the thorny subject of celebrity and casting. In an ideal world, all actors should be unknown because this allows the audience an open mind in terms of the characters they present on screen. Being unknown allows an actor to present the character ambiguously and, if necessary, appear inconspicuous in a way that a star never can. But stars get movies made and bring people into the cinema. The fact that they have agreed to be in your film is also an endorsement of it, commanding respect from the crew and attracting other good actors to the project. And when they turn out to be likeable, hard-working, cooperative human beings like Colin Firth and Mena Suvari, then I have no complaints!

I am hoping with Trauma, that the public's perception of Colin will actually add to their enjoyment of the film. People trust him because of the other parts he has played and audiences, especially in Britain, feel that they own him, seeing him as an actor of integrity. They will therefore expect him to be honest and true, and want his character to be good. Or at least not want him to be bad.

Hitchcock was the master of this kind of audience manipulation often using "good men" in his lead roles, challenging the audience to trust them despite evidence to the contrary. James Stewart comes to mind in Vertigo. You follow his progress through the film, trusting him to be a "decent chap", and it is therefore more shocking when things are not quite as they seem, when his world becomes disturbingly off-kilter. In fact, his character in Vertigo is quite odd if you analyse it. As is Colin's in Trauma. And so the audience must decide: is he sad, mad or positively dangerous?

STOP PRESS! The fantastic new Trauma website is now live

In his fifth entry, Marc is surrounded by DOPs...  

What is the collective noun for Lighting Cameramen? Something posh and French no doubt, like a "cardre" of DOPs? For Lighting Cameramen, or DOPs (Directors Of Photography), are a breed apart; slick and cliquey by reputation, like pilots in the RAF. They speak another language, using the arcane terminology of f-stops and ASAs while commanding large men in huge trucks to move heavy industrial equipment around in the name of beauty.

Tarkovsky called cinema "Sculpting In Time", John Boorman called it "Money Into Light". It's an art form that deals in two fundamentals: LIGHT and TIME. And the DOP, directing men up ladders, with one eye on his spot meter, is in sole charge of committing these elusive, eternal elements onto tiny squares of emulsion that travel through the camera mechanism at 24 frames a second. It's an absurdly responsible job shrouded in mystery and technique. The DOP is, if you like, the gatekeeper to the whole possibility of cinema.

"I ran into a whole clump of them"

Of course an intimate social drama shot on digital will require a different approach to a huge historical epic shot on 70mm. Sometimes the camera department must make themselves inconspicuous, invisible almost, but the centrality of the DOPs' role is never in doubt. I have been lucky as a director to work with some of the best, none more so than John Mathieson on Trauma. Rarely, though, have I been in the presence of more than one of them at any one time. And then, last weekend in Edinburgh, I ran into a whole clump of them. All in one go. Hence my need for a collective noun.

John Mathieson and I were to do a Q&A session for the Directors Guild on Saturday. Arriving on Friday night, our first stop was a strange vegetarian bar where two DOPs had already congregated. One was Anthony Dod Mantle, renowned for his digital photography on Dogme films and latterly for Danny Boyle (28 Days Later). Another was a young Argentinian, Natasha Braier, whose work I was also familiar with (Laurence Coriat's beautiful short film Being Bad). We duly introduced ourselves to each other and went to see Anthony Dod Mantle's Q&A.

Much of the session was taken up with describing Lars Von Trier's unique working methods on Dogville and its recent sequel, Manderlay. How the director was obsessed with ideas and patterns. How he had a rig designed so that he could shoot all the scenes himself, with lighting that worked from 360 degrees, with a black floor with markings instead of sets on Dogville, then a white floor on Manderlay. Here was a director working at the cutting edge of the medium forcing his DOP to adapt and respond in new ways. It was a fascinating window into the world of a man whose films I have always found demanding, if not sometimes totally alienating.

We were all then invited to a party at the home of Seamus McGarvey, an Irish DOP who has settled with his family in Edinburgh. Seamus I knew a little because he shot Butterfly Kiss, my friend Michael Winterbottom's first feature. He is also the youngest DOP ever to receive the coveted BSC after his name, and his recent work only reflects this achievement (The Hours, Enigma, High Fidelity). More important than all of this, however, is the fact that Seamus and his wife Phoebe really know how to throw a good party. When we got there yet another DOP of much renown, John De Borman, had already installed himself! (John shot The Full Monty as well as most of Gillies MacKinnon's films.)

There was much banter and little talk of f-stops or ASAs amongst the assembled throng of DOPs, who seemed thrilled to be meeting each other. Here were the boys (and one girl) from bomber command relaxing off-duty, and it was great to be in their presence. But there was expectation in the camp. Seamus had been out to the off-licence to buy more beers because the arrival of yet another - almost mythical - DOP was imminent, one whose reputation as a DOP was only rivalled by his reputation as a drinker: Chris Doyle.

"Films try and attain the simplicity of music"

If Tod Mantle's experiences with Lars Von Trier on a cold stage in Denmark had been pushing the envelope of the DOP's work in one direction, then Chris Doyle's in the Far East shooting Wong Kar Wai's films on sweaty locations with no script was pushing it in another. Here was an Australian gypsy who had lived in obscurity in the East until Chungking Express introduced the rest of the world to his vibrant palette and distinctively free shooting style (soon to be seen in the upcoming Jet Li martial arts pic, Hero).

When he finally arrived at the party, it was obvious that here was a unique character with great energy and charisma. And yet his work is so delicate and refined - with an almost spiritual serenity to it at times - that, behind the hard-drinking maverick image, one detects a diligent and sensitive artist.

The next day we watched Chris Doyle do his Q&A to a packed cinema. He had not slept and had an ice bucket full of Budweisers by his side, so his wild man image was intact. His approach was eclectic to say the least, projecting specially made film haikus onto the screen while he talked in a Zen-like way about colour and life. It was sometimes hard to follow his meandering trains of thought, but he said a few things that seemed truly wise. For example, that all films try and attain the simplicity of music.

Certainly, he was a tough act to follow, and John Mathieson and I felt very British and reserved when it was our turn to take the stand. And yet each talk, including our own, confirmed one thing: that filmmaking is primarily a process, and despite the technique and technicalities involved, it is equally reliant upon relationships and the serendipity of circumstance. Half science, half magic; as much about accident as design.

In his sixth entry, Marc meets a Rock icon in New York...  

I'm back in New York, en route to the Toronto Film Festival. The stifling summer heat of my last visit has given way to a lovely autumnal glow, and the mood here seems more sombre as the city reflects on the events of three years ago. I was in the States on 9/11/2001 too, not in New York but Los Angeles, to audience test My Little Eye, so to an extent I am thinking back to that time as well. We were grounded (unlike the Bin Ladens), trapped in the strangely unsettling calm of the Hotel Avalon in Hollywood watching events unfold in New York. But that's another story.

"It's business as usual in New York"

I am here to work, something that seems perfectly acceptable in this busy, driven city whatever the mood or the weather. If citizens are inwardly reliving the events that forever transformed their beloved skyline along with their world view, outwardly they seem as busy as ever, chasing the buck and the dream. The crowds may be heading for Ground Zero to commemorate their loss, but the street sellers are still selling pretzels and hot dogs and the NYPD cycling team are heading off on the Staten Island Ferry to some race or other. It's business as usual in New York and the streets give off steam under the strain of it all. The city's energy is undiminished and it's what draws people to it like a magnet.

It's what brought John Cale here from Wales in 1962 to form The Velvet Undeground with Lou Reed. He, up until now, has been my primary link with the city (contributing music to House Of America and Beautiful Mistake as well as performing in Still:Here/Now). This time I am here to see another Brit who was also inexorably drawn towards this bustling pop-art metropolis: Mick Rock. If you don't recognise his name, you might know his work. It overlaps with that of John Cale's as well as David Bowie, Lou Reed, Debbie Harry, and Iggy Pop.

The bleached-out image of Lou Reed with mascara and guitar staring out from the cover of the Transformer album? That's one of Mick's photographs. One of many that he took chronicling the journey that music took from Glam to Punk. He is the rock photographer most associated with those heady times, and all that troubled, glittering talent. He was a courtesan of Camp.

Mick's photographic career started almost accidentally, taking pictures of Syd Barrett, the troubled Pink Floyd frontman back in 1969, and it was obvious from the beginning that he had the ability to capture the essence of people with his lens. Those images of an otherworldly poet lost in another world, which became the cover to his The Madcap Laughs album, are still haunting. But 1972 was Mick's annus mirabilis, for this was the year that David Bowie - a man on a mission - became Ziggy Stardust.

Small clusters of boys wearing eye-liner and pale long-haired girls all gathered to watch Ziggy play guitar. He wasn't famous yet but he was already a superstar in his own head, and Mick was there to photograph him. "Nice name," David said to him backstage on their first encounter, "and it's your real one." David Bowie had started life as David Jones but Mick Rock had been christened Michael Rock, so perhaps he was destined to be a rock photographer. Anyway, a friendship blossomed between the two South London boys, Mick became David's collaborator and a remarkable journey began which landed them both in New York.

"Cocaine was the fuel for this manic energy"

And that's where the journey almost ended for Mick. Six years ago when he suffered an enormous heart attack and underwent quadruple by-pass surgery. He saw Salvador Dali's crucified Christ floating above his hospital bed and thought he was going to die. Alan Klein paid his hospital bills and Lou Reed sent him roses and he sang David Bowie's Rock And Roll Suicide all the way to the operating theatre. Drugs of course were part of the story until this point, cocaine being the fuel for all this manic energy and the cause of his near-death. When he awoke he knew it was time for a change of lifestyle. Yoga and self-belief pulled him through, and he is still working in New York though living a more suburban life than before, in Staten Island.

Which is where we start our on-camera interview with him on 9/11. The interview - which lasts two days! - will hopefully be the basis for a documentary feature about the man and his work. Mick has an extraordinary tale to tell. And he tells it well.

When I am not doing feature films, this is the kind of work that I enjoy most. I suppose because I am such a big music fan. The images that Mick created informed my youth and fed my dreams and it is a privilege indeed to hear the stories that lie behind them. More than anything they make me want to go back to the music to play it really loud and be inspired once more. To "freak out in a teenage daydream" as Bowie once sang. It's still allowed, even when you're 45.

PS: Trauma opens in the UK this Friday. GO AND SEE IT!

In his seventh entry, Marc takes Trauma to the Toronto Film Festival...  

Not a good start to the week. Jonathan Ross on Film 2004 called Trauma the worst film he'd seen all year. Stephen Daldry called to say that he'd said that about The Hours too, which made me feel better. There is some solidarity amongst British directors after all, bound together at least in the knowledge of how difficult it is to make a film. Whereas the British press seem united only in one thing: to slag off British directors. If you don't believe me, see the reviews afforded myself, Michael Winterbottom and Ken Loach this week.

"Whatever anybody tells you: criticism hurts"

I don't know whether it's a good thing to be out here at the Toronto Festival screening Trauma while it opens in cinemas in the UK. I feel strangely dislocated, even though I know that there is little I can do for the film on the week of its release. Except obsess about the reviews and worry about attendances. OK, there is something potentially exciting about paying to go and see your film at your local cinema on the night that it opens, but that excitement can soon turn to depression if there is hardly anybody else in the auditorium. And if the reviews are bad, it can all get pretty demoralising. Whatever anybody tells you: criticism hurts. The whole process can throw flattery and insult at you in equal measure; force you to question your vanity and challenge your self-belief.

The Toronto Festival experience certainly errs on the side of flattery. Visiting filmmakers are welcomed here with open arms and the films are shown in huge theatres which are invariably sold out. Best of all, the crowds are made up almost totally of Torontonians, ordinary people with a massive hunger and enthusiasm for the films. So there is an element of schizophrenia induced on Friday - the day of the Toronto screening as well as the UK release - as I try to absorb the bad reviews Trauma receives back home (oh yes, there are some stinkers!) while simultaneously facing enthusiastic journalists and TV interviewers here in Canada. I tell myself that I must adopt an outwardly positive attitude, however vulnerable I am feeling, and talking to these people who have come from as far as Russia and Australia to interview me has a certain therapeutic effect. I imagine a Trauma poster hanging beneath a chandelier in a Moscow underground station, with the title in Russian script. This cheers me up and almost makes me forget about the Siberia that I have been sent to by most of the British press.

As the interviews proceed however, I become aware that my family and friends back home are dutifully going out to see Trauma at their local cinemas. I imagine them sitting there watching it. Then I make a few calls to discover that the screenings have not been very well attended. Then I decide not to punish myself any further. My technique for this is a simple one. I remind myself that it is far more heroic to be unpopular than popular. I mean, who would I rather be: Johnny Rotten or Barry Manilow? Well neither actually (especially after I'm A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here!). But surely it's more exciting to be alternative than mainstream? I remind myself that Luis Buñuel spent years in exile in Mexico; that Michael Powell's Peeping Tom was condemned to the gutter on its release; and that Terrence Malick's Badlands had the worst test results ever. Then I have a drink and propose a toast to Jonathan Ross. It seems to work.

"I want to have your baby"

Going to dinner with a bunch of friends and survivors from the British film industry only makes things better. The most important thing, above all others probably, is never to lose your sense of humour, and luckily for me Colin Firth has arrived in town with his intact (I thought actors were meant to be the neurotic ones, not directors!?). His presence at the screening, yet again, makes a difference. If you can produce a star or two from your movie, the audiences are really on your side and the red carpet treatment we receive on arrival at The Ryerson Theatre is overwhelming. Flash bulbs and TV cameras, screaming fans. "I want to have your baby!" shouts one during one of Colin's interviews. It's great fun. And after all the introductions and applause, the lights go down and there's silence. Showing your film to an attentive full house of over a thousand people is really quite thrilling. You can feel the collective heat of the crowd in the darkness. It transforms the cinema experience, which on a rainy afternoon in an empty auditorium can seem like a very solitary and internal one, into something more communal and theatrical. It's probably how cinema felt in earlier, less critical times. I am swept up in the moment and I'm glad that I came.

So, with the screening over I find myself basking in reflected glory rather than wallowing in self-pity. And there's a party too! See what I mean about schizophrenia? It's certainly been a week of mood swings. And of course there's plenty left to worry about: the weekend press for a start, and the opening weekend's figures... but luckily, by Saturday morning, I have other things on my mind. Like my hangover. And my next film, Snow Cake (see Diary No. 1).

We have already met with Sigourney Weaver in Toronto, who also has a film in the festival (Imaginary Heroes). She has told the local press that Snow Cake will be her next project and she tells us that she has spent time over the summer with some autistic adults to try and get a feel for her character in the film (a high-functioning autistic woman called Linda). This really impresses us - her commitment is a real inspiration and we get to work. Andrew Eaton and Gina Carter - the two producers from Revolution Films - have come over to forge relationships with Canadian producers and financiers and I am sent off on a recce, or a "scout" as they say over here, to look for locations. We want to shoot the film here in January, in the snow. It's hard to imagine that right now as Anthony, the locations finder, drives me three hours north of Toronto in bright sunshine. But as the September sun sets over the vast golden cornfields and Miles Davies blows his horn on the car radio, I can't help but feel a certain optimism. Hopefully another journey has just begun. Or maybe it's just another mood swing?

In his final entry, Marc heads to LA to present a script to Hollywood producers...  

How did we leave things? Oh yes, a critical panning for Trauma in the UK and me fleeing to northern Canada in search of, theoretically, snowy locations midst Ontario's fields of gold. Two days in that wide-open country certainly helped blow away some of the cobwebs of anxiety that had lodged in various cranial corners after the release of the film. The sun on the corn and the windswept beaches of Lake Huron brought some perspective to bear. But no real distance - that takes more time.

Resurrection Man suffered a similar fate to Trauma on its release but somehow acquired more respect and even affection in retrospect. I am not suggesting for a moment that Trauma will one day be hailed as a neglected classic, but simply reminding myself that it is not yet time to write its obituary. So I won't.

"Enchanted enclave known as Hollywood"

And so, after a whistle-stop tour of Canadian one-horse towns I find myself on a plane heading west, to the City of Angels, Los Angeles. Or to be more exact, the enchanted enclave of that city known as Hollywood. For LA is not Hollywood and it is only on the drive in from the airport, through the urban sprawl, that you remember this. There are more murders here daily than in the whole of Canada. And yet once you enter the land of dreams, this enormous hinterland of poverty disappears in a dreamy ripple dissolve; the palm trees pass overhead in a Hockney-blue sky saluting your arrival, while Steely Dan serenade you from the radio of your hired SUV with Showbiz Kids, the ultimate Hollywood song. "They don't give a fig about anybody else." Or something like that. Welcome to the dream.

I am met by producer Ynyr Williams, whose first name is so Welsh that it confounds everybody we meet. It's pronounced Un - Ir we explain. Un as is in Un-reliable, Ir as in Ir-responsible. It becomes a kind of mantra. He and I are here to talk to Beau Sinclair, Pierce Brosnan's producing partner, about Caitlin, a script that charts the relationship between Dylan Thomas and his wife, muse and combatant, Caitlin. It is a script that has found little support in the UK, where films about poets and their personal lives are viewed with suspicion. (Both Sylvia and Nora are cited as reasons to be wary.) So why should Caitlin be any different?

Basically because Dylan Thomas is the poet that more than any other inspires teenagers of all ages and was the first to be treated like a rock and roll star. Women threw underwear at him in New York, which was all too much for the rotund Welshman. New York, drink and this kind of easy adulation eventually killed him leaving Caitlin to make sense of it all. There's a kind of Sid And Nancy intensity to the whole story, and if the film can capture that then it won't fall into the trap of being too literary and elegant. It is not a film about poetry but about love - messy love - with poetry providing the soundtrack. That's the idea anyway; and that's the pitch.

What's interesting to us is that Beau has responded so strongly to the material, as have the American agents. What helps their view of things is that there is here a part an actress can get her teeth into, maybe win awards for (an American obsession!), but it is nevertheless intriguing that the script is having a much more positive response on this side of the Atlantic. Part of the reason is perhaps cultural. I can't help feeling that the Americans have a more romantic view of the artist/poet than we do. Are we more inclined towards debunking the myth rather than celebrating it? And aren't we even more scared of pretentiousness than we are of banality? Artists and their myths carry a health warning in Britain.

"There is a famously 'can do' culture here"

Whatever the reasons behind it, it is this positive American response that has brought us to LA. There is a famously "can do" culture here and the mere fact that we have flown over to "meet" has already helped our cause. We have lunch with Beau and her team from Irish Dreamtime, and Pierce Brosnan comes too. Did I mention that Caitlin was Irish? Well she was, and this surely helps a little. As does the fact that Pierce's son is called Dylan Thomas Brosnan! Actually he is named after Bob Dylan and Pierce's father Thomas, but no matter, the young Robert Zimmerman took his name from Dylan Thomas so there is a kind of continuity here. And some serendipity? Who knows. Pierce is very gracious about the fact that we have already cast the part of Dylan (Michael Sheen) and it no doubt helps that this tall, tanned Irishman is as unlike the squat, curly-haired Welshman as it is possible to be. Actors can imagine themselves playing almost any role but there are limits! I mean, we are talking about the man who became James Bond for god's sake!

While in LA I also do meetings about my beloved Snow Cake and am introduced to the entire team at Gersch, my US agents. It's two days of non-stop hand-shaking culminating in a high-speed rush to the airport through that sobering urban sprawl. Then I am in Malmo in Sweden, driving to the university town of Lund with the car radio playing Swedish hip-hop very loudly. I am here for the Fantastic Film Festival, a small affair specialising in weird and wonderful cinema. I would like to tell you more but I'm running out of space. However I must mention a small Catalan science fiction film I saw here called Tempus Fugit, made by the charming and talented Enric Folch. It won all the prizes and deservedly so. The fact that it was in a minority language made it an even sweeter victory in my eyes. I remember taking a black and white Welsh language science fiction film to Göthenborg some years ago (Arthur's Departure) and being thrilled at the lack of prejudice against its lack of Anglo-American credentials. After the hubbub of Hollywood this was something worth remembering. "To thyself be true" I guess. Then take the rough with the smooth. Go forth and make movies! And good luck out there, whoever you are.

Trauma is very uncomfortable to watch. Are you worried about the way audiences will receive it?

Well, that's the danger with this kind of film. You want to make it intriguing and odd and all that stuff, but you don't want to alienate the audience. I suppose, basically, you have to make sure that it doesn't put people off too much. But I think people will accept a weird film if they know it's going to be a weird film.

You've developed a reputation for dark films, even earning the nickname Dark Marc...

Yeah, that's Tommy Flanagan [actor and friend] who called me that! I suppose what it is - weird though it may sound - you don't choose your films in a strategic or career-minded way. You just find stories that interest you and some get made and some don't. So there is this haphazard element to it. The other thing is, I'm not really interested in making naturalistic films. And if you're not doing slice-of-life type movies, you've got to look at areas where you can play around a bit. The thing about a horror film or a psychological thriller is that it's expected to be original and odd in the way that you deal with the storytelling. Like with My Little Eye, the idea of telling a story with webcams was as interesting to me as the story itself.

What was it about this story that got your creative juices flowing?

I was very interested in the fact that it's actually about Colin Firth's character. He is in every scene so it's about his world and what's underlying his world, it's a very subjective type of film. It's not true to say it's totally from his point of view, but the world we're presenting is the world as he sees it. I had just done a film where it was all about an objective point of view - My Little Eye was about being a voyeur - and this was a chance to do something very different, seeing the world through the eyes of someone who's falling apart mentally.

As far as the story is concerned, I was interested in the kind of character that you might sit opposite on the Tube in London - where you see something in his eyes that disturbs you but you can always get off at the next stop. It seems to me that London is such a big, dirty city in that respect - full of these people who live in bedsits or flats, who would probably be OK if they lived in a more caring environment.

Do you have to be an outsider to pick up on that London vibe?

I don't know, maybe. But coming from the outside also made London a very exciting place to be, so it's not that I'm down on London particularly. I think it's just about getting older, when you're not only seeing that optimistic side of the city - where it's all about the thrill of the hurly burly - but also that downside where someone like Ben (Colin Firth) can slip through the cracks. I know it's a very melancholic sort of theme but it's an interesting thing for me to elevate that character and make him the hero - or anti-hero - of his world.

This is a very different role from the suave characters that we've come to associate with Colin Firth. Why did you cast him?

The thing with Colin was that I did a television job with him about ten years ago now, one of those bog-standard Ruth Rendell things, and they call her stuff "why dunnit" rather than "whodunit" because it's very psychological and full of dark characters. I remembered how good he was in that and, because he's in every scene, I needed someone who's sympathetic enough that the audience wouldn't mind spending so much time with him - and Colin is that actor. He's got an integrity but also a mystery about him.

Actually we had a conversation and Colin said, "Isn't it interesting how people never make films about a man in a suit anymore?", like the Hitchcock films with someone in his 40s or 50s thrown into a deadly situation. In a way that slightly older Everyman, as opposed to the 20-year-old hero, is something we don't do much in Britain anymore. So in a way, although Ben isn't really that ordinary man, we thought it would be a chance to do that film.

Wasn't the part originally written for someone younger?

Yes, but only because the writer [Richard Smith] is only about 24 so he's inclined to write about someone who's his own age. That would have worked in one way, but there's something more melancholy about someone who's a bit older, I think, because he's had bit of rough and tumble in his life, you know? That litany of wrong turns is the tragedy of the common man.

You've also cast Mena Suvari in a role that's very different to everything else she's done...

Yeah, it is an interesting choice. But I think Charlotte had to be angelic and have a lightness about her for us to be able to fall into Ben's idea that possibly she might be an entity. And she's just incandescent, she's one of those actors who does very little but brings a lot. It's like she has this ethereal otherness. She's got that down.

What do you hope that people ultimately take away from watching this film?

I'm hoping that they enjoy its ambiguities rather than get frustrated by them. I think this is the type of film that will lead to a really interesting and heated conversation in the pub afterwards. Genre films are really good when they can do that - if you can have an argument with your mate about it afterwards, that's getting value for money!