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She was enjoying his fame - talking readily of how she had sat him on the sofa and fed him buckets of icecream when he came to stay - but was wary of discussing his delicate psyche.
Wherever she goes, the people she meets are always trying to get an inside track on Daniel. Even Ireland, where she has a cottage in County Mayo, provides no relief. "The Irish are worse; they come to the door," she says. She sends the nosey packing.
Wary of being classed as such, I ask her about her work as a documentary producer. Seven years ago, she was forced to leave the BBC because of a rule against husbands and wives working together.
Sending out countless proposals and coping with the inevitable rejections has been tough. Although Tamasin's various series on adultery, gifted children and letters from Second World War soldiers have been well received, she lives in a constant state of insecurity.
Does she not envy her younger brother's success? "I would love to have people begging me to fill slots, just as he has piles of scripts waiting for him. And it would be useful to have more money," she admits.
"But I don't envy him his fame - not when I see what has happened to him. He has no privacy. Everyone feels they own a bit of him, that they have a right to know."
In the face of gossip, she says, Daniel maintains a dignified silence. "It's the only way," she believes. "I get crosser than he does and call up newspaper editors. I can't bear the way he is vilified."
The tale of how he dumped the French actress Isabelle Adjani - then seven months pregnant - by fax is "pure fabrication," she says.
Nor does she have a particularly warm recollection of Adjani. "When she came to stay at my home in Somerset, she never took her sunglasses off. She probably wore them in bed." Tamasin's nephew, Gabriel, is now two years old, and she has never set eyes on him.
Last November, when her brother finally married, another story illustrating his "callous" behaviour did the rounds. Deya Pichardo, the personal trainer who lived with him in New York, claimed that she had only learnt of the marriage from Adjani. This is bosh, says Tamasin.
"They had broken up months before; he was kind enough to let Deya stay on in the flat."
Sadly, the persistent image of Dan as the heartless Lothario has caused a rift within the family.

In April, there was a fracas over the unveiling of a statue to Sir Michael Balcon. Jonathan Balcon, their mother's brother, wrote to the organisers saying that it would be best if Daniel stayed away because Sir Michael would have been "horrified by his sexual mores".
"It was completely horrific and not what my grandfather would have wanted," says Tamasin. "He would have thought it was extraordinarily vulgar."
Tamasin's own relationship with Daniel is so close that it amounts, she says, to "a conspiracy". They work similarly - by total immersion. He had rung her the night before while filming the lead role in The Boxer and had spoken in the Northern Irish accent he is using for the part; this did not strike her as at all odd.
For the documentary she is currently cutting - a series on musical prodigies at Chetham's school in Manchester - she abandoned her family to live there all winter. "It's the only way to do it, from the inside," she explains.
She never speaks less than emphatically, never works less than flat out and, like her brother, produces work of rare intensity. Daniel, she says, "burns a hole through the screen; it's not acting, it comes from within. I try to film people who have that quality. I am fascinated by those who have the will to achieve - their courage, conviction and insecurity."
Where does it come from? "Our parents were ferociously anti-competitive; perhaps that makes you ambitious. We also had examples of fantastic achievement, in my father and grandfather, which made us feel that you did something because you loved it and you gave 115 per cent."
Her battling quality was probably also a response to nursery life in the Day-Lewises' Greenwich house. It was an upstairs, downstairs world, where the children saw grown-ups as "the enemy". Their mother, the actress Jill Balcon, has since repined that she was so absorbed in their father (and acting) that perhaps she didn't pay enough attention to the children.
Contact between the two worlds was limited to Sunday lunch and bedtime stories. The rest of the time, Tamasin remembers, "my father was downstairs in his study, reading or writing. I was upstairs reading, writing, drawing or playing acting games with Dan.
"I remember him leaping from the nursery window sill as Yuri Gagarin, the first man in space."

Their father's illnesses - he had several heart attacks before he died of cancer - accentuated that early independence. "When I was 11 or 12, he began to be carted off to hospital. I always thought he was going to die," she says. "I was the daughter he had always longed for, and the elder, so I was able to talk to him as a teenager. Dan didn't so much. After his death, we became self-sufficient - but we had each other."
Tamasin was 18 when he died; Daniel 15. Before going up to university, she left home and worked as a model for two years, living in a flat near Marble Arch, where she would marinate venison for 25 in the bath. Daniel went to Bristol Old Vic drama school and, when Tamasin went there to work for the BBC in 1979, they shared a flat.
These days, they talk frequently, announcing themselves on the telephone with coded signature tunes, sometimes discussing work, sometimes their late father's idiosyncrasies. In times of trouble, Daniel always turns to her.
"He knows I won't ask questions," she says. Instead, she encourages his playful side: "We sing and dance, fall about in hysterics or watch Clint Eastwood movies. My children think we are demented."
She is delighted with her new sister-in-law, Rebecca, the daughter of Arthur Miller, and was tickled when the playwright remarked on their striking resemblance. The wedding, in a Vermont village, where Miller's oldest friend is vicar, provided "two or three of the happiest days" of Tamasin's life.
"Rebecca is the best thing that could have happened to Dan. Having been brought up in the shadow of a famous father, she knows what it is like. And she has a life of her own as a film maker; she won't get swept away."

Electronic Telegraph - March 15, 1997
WHO IS THE MOODIEST OF THEM ALL?
Ralph Fiennes and Daniel Day-Lewis are eerily similar. But being pale and interesting won't make them truly bankable stars, says Mark Steyn
They are Hollywood's favorite pair of rangy, upper-middle class Englishmen - though one's got a Welsh name and the other insists on pretending he's Irish. Both have had sex on screen with Juliette Binoche but only one off. Both have played Hamlet on stage, though one walked off. One gained 30lb for Schindler's List, the other lost 30lb for In The Name Of The Father, but both are invariably described as "haggard", "wan", "gaunt". In fact, one's gaunt, the other's cadaverous - or is it the other way round?
One is Ralph Fiennes, whose name, as Time magazine helpfully informed its readers, "rhymes with "safe signs" and not, as some Americans assume, with "Alf Viennas". The other is Daniel Day-Lewis, who is the child of former Poet Laureate Cecil Day-Lewis and not, as some Americans assume, Doris Day's son by Jerry Lewis.
Day-Lewis can be seen currently in The Crucible, which sank quickly in the US and has proved a temporary set-back for him, and Fiennes in the English Patient, which is the art-house hit of the season, has been festooned with Oscar nominations and has put his career back on the upswing.

The closest the two have come to a direct head-to-head was the 1994 Oscars ceremony, when Fiennes was up for Schindler's List (best supporting actor) and Day-Lewis for In The Name of The Father (best actor). However, 1994 was the year of Phildelphia, in which Tom Hanks played an Aids-stricken lawyer. Both Fiennes and Day-Lewis would have made a better job of it than the chubby-cheeked Hanks, for whom the ravages of Aids meant no more than a light perspriation and a few stick-on lesions. Indeed, it emerged that Day-Lewis had turned down the role, and he went on to become more famous for his romantic convolutions, while Fiennes progressed to Quiz Show, which flopped, and Strange Days, which did likewise.
Strange Days, in which Fiennes played a rogue cop, was one of those futuristic, apocalyptic, anarchist nightmares. After the film failed, Hollywood execs started saying they told you so, he's not a movie star, just another of those clever, clever tight-assed Brits who should never be let out of period costume. With The English Patient, he's back on friendlier turf.
It's doubtful whether either actor could carry a big movie in the way Tom Cruise or Tom Hanks can, but, in the right roles, they bring an intensity few can match. Go back to Day-Lewis's breakthrough role in My Beautiful Laundrette, and the moment when he looks in the mirror and fluffs up his hair: you notice how his face is different when he looks at himself from the way it is when he looks at others. Or take Fienne's breakthrough role in Schindler's List and the scene where the commandant enters the room and sees his beautiful Jewish maid: in a few seconds Fiennes's face registers the evil in his heart, the acknowledgement of her beauty, the possibility of human feeling, and the rejection of it. By the time he lashes out at her, the wilful moral perversity of his evil has been skewered as deftly as possible. That's acting!

For Women - 1994
http://kathyddl.tripod.com/women.htm

With his sexy smile, piercing blue-grey eyes, handsome chiselled features and tall, lean frame, Daniel Day-Lewis exudes a raw animal magnetism, both in person and on screen in films like The Last Of The Mohicans and The Unbearable Lightness of Being.
No wonder Madeleine Stowe's knees weakened when her character felt the bare-chested, buckskin-clad hero of Mohicans starring at her intently with undisguised lust. But Daniel does the same thing to Michelle Pfeiffer in Martin Scorsese's The Age of lnnocence. The actor stars as Newland Archer, a high-placed member of stuffy New York society in the 1870s, who, although recently married to May Welland (Winona Ryder), falls passionately in love with her cousin, the countess Ellen Olenska (Pfeiffer). The film, with its backdrop of high society and tortuous etiquette, might seem a million miles away from the raw passion of Mohicans, but Daniel doesn't see it that way.
"These people are savages - in dinner jackets and corsets," he points out. "You could just as well put a leopard in a dinner jacket, you know, and I think that must have been one of the fascinations for Martin. His work is always about people he understands and he understands these people. It's a violent society, a brutal society, and much more so because that brutality is so insidious."
Perhaps Daniel Day-Lewis was a chameleon in a former life. Of course, all actors like to dress up and pretend to be other people, but few are as obsessively intense about their craft and changing their persona. So when the star first went to meet Scorsese in his Paris hotel suite to discuss playing the role of Newland Archer, he naturally turned up in costume.
"I decided to go through every day being very careful about the way I tied my tie and the way my suit was pressed", he admits.
And once he had the part, he completely immersed himself in the character. First, he checked into an old-fashioned hotel in New york which reminded him of a grand mansion from the 19th century.
And then he disappeared. Except that he never checked out. Instead, he re-registered as Newland Archer, and continued to live and dress as his character during the film's rehearsal period.

There's an intensity in his art that is mirrored by the often traumatic events in his life. By his whole demeanour - his looks, his clothes, his bearing he seems the epitome of the impoverished, struggling actor. But, in actual fact (an expression he loves to use) he is the scion of one of England's great families, born literally with a silver (screen) spoon in his mouth.
His mother was the graceful Jill Balcon who never considered nepotism a bad word. She appeared in a number of her father's films, notably Nicholas Nickleby. His father was the British poet, Cecil Day Lewis, Poet Laureate of England.
His grandfather was Sir Michael Balcon, the distinguished producer who at one time or another ran almost all the British studios, but is remembered for the Ealing comedies Whisky Galore and Kind Hearts and Coronets.
Daniel was born on April 29, 1957, and although he grew up in Greenwich, South London, his most vivid childhood memories seem to be of family trips to Ireland, where his father was born.
"We'd go to Connemera and then County Mayo, and there were these horse races on the beach at low tide," he recalls. "There'd be two poles stuck in the sand and tinkers setting up illegal betting boothes. One year, my sister Tamasin rode in the race, and another year I fell in love with a girl from the town on a beautiful chestnut horse, with her black hair flying."
Back home, Daniel went to a state school until his parents, realising that his education was suffering, packed him off to join his sister at Bedales, the progressive boarding school in Hampshire. At Bedales, Daniel, who had already put on plays at home in London with Tamasin, joined the National Youth Theatre. But it left him with "bad thoughts about the theatre".
"Having been completely convinced that theatre was the only plausible life for me, I decided there was something intrinsically very seedy and distasteful about it."

"One day I looked in the mirror, and saw myself. I looked just like a demon. So I got out my running shoes and started pounding the track."
The 6' 2" skinny actor says that running got him back into shape, both physically and mentally, and he still runs every day. After landing two more small roles, in The Bounty and Gandhi, Daniel got his first break showing just how versatile the young actor was. He played two diametrically opposed characters - the priggish, awkward Cecil in A Room With A View, and the gay punk Johnny in My Beautiful Launderette. But it was as the sensual, womanising doctor opposite the sultry Lena Olin in The Unbearable Lightness of Being that the actor first became a star.
"The first thing I understood about Tomas was his love for Tereza", he comments. "The other was his discovery that he doesn't care about relinquishing his life as a surgeon. I understood my own secret and deeply-rooted desire to wake up one morning and discover that I didn't need to do what I was doing."
The Unbearable Lightness of Being hit the screens in 1987. Since then, AIDS has become much more a part of all our lives, but Daniel's character in the film didn't seem to have heard of safer sex. "Obviously things have changed for reasons we all know," he says. "It changed out of fear more than anything else. But now people are asking themselves whether it's acceptable from a moral point of view rather than just a human point of view. Feople are beginning to wonder about the concept of promiscuity and what it can bring upon us. I don't think it necessarily dissuades people from having sex, but it makes lot of people think twice".
From his success as Tomas, Day-Lewis chose the most preposterous film imaginable in Stars And Bars, in which he seems to run round naked for the nearly the last hour. Playing opposite Harry Dean Stanton, he described it as a film which: "deserved a chance which it didn't get." Fortunately, perhaps, for him the film was not widely seen. After this, the actor did another of his now-famous disappearing acts. Carrying little more than change of clothes, his paintbox and running shoes, he took off and travelled incognito arour Europe for several months, hanging out with students and sleeping in the open outside the Palais des Papes in Avignon.
"Sometimes you need to go crazy, and it's easier to be crazy with strangers than with friends," he explains. "At that time, in London I had a sense of being pressed in on. I needed somewhere I could wander freely and be an idiot if I wanted to."

Eventually returning to his small house in Hammersmith, London, Daniel was in no hurry to work. But then he was given the script to My Left Foot and he recognised another kindred spirit.
"I felt I understood Christy, knew what he was about, the bloody-mindedness, the sense of being trapped," he notes.
With his obsessive attention to detail, the actor spent other two months with cerebralpalsy patients before embarking on the film which won him the 1989 Best Actor Academy Award. Ask him where he keeps his Oscar today, and Daniel's reply sums up his gypsy lifestyle and his approach to his art: "It's a friend's apartment because I don't have a place of my own at the moment."
Fresh from his Oscar success, the star promptly disappeared to Patagonia to appear in a movie about a dentist, Eversmile New Jersey, before taking on the daunting challenge of Hamlet at the National Theatre. But Daniel never completed the run. A week before the end, he walked offstage in the middle of a performance, and never returned. Many friends still believe that the classic role caused the star to suffer a nervous breakdown. He has never talked about what happened that night, except to say that during the first scene where he meets his father's ghost, he had "the strange sensation that I was talking to my own father, and what he said to me on that night seemed particularly hard to bear." Later, when asked if he was committed to doing any theatre in the near future, he replied: "I'm committed to staying as far away from the stage as possible in the foreseeable future."
Whatever demons Daniel wrestled with, they again kept him out of sight for the next two years. His sister has said that he stayed with her for a while, but then vanished again. When he reappeared, it was to take up a very different role, that of Hawkeye in The Last of the Mohicans - although the film makers had to twist his arm to accept the part.
"It wasn't that I actively didn't want the part, but I wasn't looking for it when it came my way. It didn't seem like something that I should take on, and I fought shy of it for a while," he admits. "I felt it was too far removed from my understanding for me to ever be able to get close to. But then that in itself was the fascination which drew me towards it. It was a challenge."

THE ARTS & MEDIA/CINEMA
DASHING DANIEL He can play it all, from Hamlet to Hawkeye. For Daniel Day-Lewis, acting is a very serious game.
By RICHARD CORLISS Reported by Carrie Ross Welch/Dublin
It is an actor's passion to observe the world. It is his art to become what he observes. And finally it is his job to let the world observe him. It's hard work, reconciling the natures of voyeur and exhibitionist. And when stardom falls on an actor, it is tougher to play the role demanded by the press and public: himself.
It is a role Daniel Day-Lewis would rather avoid. "I love to sit and watch people. I love to sit and listen to people. And I do bitterly resent that it's not always possible now, because I'm an object of scrutiny. When the cloak which allows you to observe is stripped from you, then the most useful and indeed fascinating tool of your work is taken with it."
Yet the world watches Day-Lewis. And with good reason. At 36, he is arguably the most accomplished film actor of his generation: handsome and wily, fierce and delicate, bold enough to submerge himself in a role, strong enough for his charismatic intelligence to shine through. He knows the camera is anX ray, a polygraph, searching his face for hints of lies and evasion. He had better not just act his character but also be it. That is Day-Lewis' goal and gift: to be so true to his characters that they need never be sentimentalized, made to seem finer, grander, wickeder or more appealing.

Survival proved harder when he was sent to Sevenoaks School in Kent. "The place was alien and unattractive in every single one of its millions of details. A feeling of nausea stayed with me from the moment I got there until the moment I left. And there was the code of honor, so you never talk about your suffering. So you have to do it in silence. Or find a place where you can be on your own and scream." This is the voice of the actor-dramatist, who can both live in the moment of that schoolboy misery and glance back in amused, ironic perspective. Day-Lewis knows Sevenoaks was no dead end; it was where he found his two vocations: cabinetmaking and acting.
His first acting role, in a Sevenoaks production of Cry, the Beloved Country, was, typically, a cue for school rebellion."I was playing a little black boy. I had to cover myself in black makeup, and what gave me the greatest pleasure was that I could never wash all of it off. Every night it sullied the sheets. For once I could be a legally disruptive influence." Soon after, he made his fleeting film debut, as a young vandal in Sunday, Bloody Sunday.
In the Sevenoaks workshop, 12-year-old Daniel "demanded to make a Ping-Pong table, which to their credit they let me do. All my life's ambition went into this table. I took it home; we used it for years." That first experience working with wood "was the start of what became one of my greatest abiding loves."
He has no regrets about Bedales, the liberal school where Tamasin was already boarding. Students worked in the loom house, the pottery barn, the woodwork shop. "I had the happiest days of my life there," he says. "After I left, I struggled for a year and a half in a fog of gloom from the sheer loss of that place."
Out of the fog and into the footlights: at 20 Daniel joined the Bristol Old Vic Theatre School, where he understudied Postlethwaite. Watching the young actor, Postlethwaite recalls, "We all saw all this extraordinary pyrotechnic work going on, and we thought, "Oh, no, not another one of these! Can't we lose him somewhere?' " Not a chance. Day-Lewis joined the West End hit Another Country, then played Romeo for the Royal Shakespeare Company. In 1986 he appeared in the National Theatre staging of The Futurists, directed by Richard Eyre. Three years later, he again teamed with Eyre for a notorious Hamlet.

Day-Lewis' was a melodramatic Dane - an agitated youth who raced across his world of a stage as if late for a date with doom. It was a reckless, bravura turn that could sap any star's strength. In the middle of a performance toward the end of the run, Day-Lewis left the stage and did not return. The theater pages were full of rumors that he had seen his father as the ghost and was driven daft. "I have no bad feelings about my father, my father's ghost, the ghost of Hamlet, Hamlet, Shakespeare, Richard Eyre or the National Theatre. But I am continually encouraged to have bad feelings by those who want to perpetuate this idea because, in a moment of exhaustion, I left the stage and didn't go back again."
Day-Lewis has long had a love-hate relationship with theater. And these days, you can hold the love. He says he is infuriated at the traditional notion "that film is the Faustian sellout. I personally think there are works in cinema history which have as much to say to us as any great piece of theater. It's never been an overriding ambition of mine to become what they call in Britain a classical actor. It's been a number of people's ambition on my behalf - but that's just because of my nose. I was given a nose they couldn't wait to put into various costumes and move around the stage."
The beginning of Day-Lewis' adult work in films was a bit part in the 1982 Gandhi. Soon he was in the South Seas shooting The Bounty, where he skulks and sulks handsomely as the craven first mate of Anthony Hopkins' Captain Bligh. It was the first of many roles in which he cast himself against heroic type. Believing that acting was a nonstop education in the spectrum of personality, he went for characters at odds with his own: the cynical surgeon in The Unbearable Lightness of Being, a wimpy art appraiser in Stars and Bars, a missionary dentist in Eversmile, New Jersey.
Day-Lewis' preparation for each film is a challenge of heroic proportions and minute detail. While making My Left Foot, he stayed in his wheelchair even when not on camera and taught himself to paint with his foot. For The Last of the Mohicans he learned how to skin animals and shoot muskets. In New York for The Age of Innocence, he checked into his Victorian-style hotel as Newland Archer and wandered the city dressed in 1870 clothes. For In the Name of the Father, he lost a substantial amount of weight. In preparation for the scene where his character is battered into making a confession, he stayed awake for three nights, during which director Sheridan arranged to have him mock-interrogated by actual policemen.

"It's in these months before the camera starts to turn," Day-Lewis says, "when you have this other life, and you can take any avenue toward it. The game is that you learn enough to stimulate the imagination into believing in the reality. Acting is always an imaginative piece of work. That is the beginning and the end of it."
It must be tremendously debilitating, this training for a movie marathon of emotional exertions. "Actually, I'm a lazy bastard. I'm terribly happy doing nothing at all," Day-Lewis says. He has gone for two years without making a film - during which time he read, traveled, visited friends and rode his beloved Triumph motorbike.
Just now, he is at liberty. No definite movie roles in his future. "Maybe there'll be a time when I'll bitterly regret not having made better use of my time. But that's unlikely because I know I can only be true to the impulses I have. And those impulses come very rarely."
He has this humbling and sacred idea: that acting deserves as much craft, sweat and devotion as, say, cabinetmaking. "Acting is a vocation," he insists.
"It has to be respected as such. But what tends to happen is that people go on contributing way beyond the time when they have anything within themselves to offer. By that time, usually it's all you know. It's a job, and you have to pay the bills. I find that sad. I'd rather pay the bills with any other means on God's earth than by performing. I think as soon as the work ceases to be vocational, you have a responsibility to get out."
Daniel Day-Lewis wouldn't mind getting out right now, we guess, on a bike that takes him to no particular place at all. Where he can observe without being stared at, converse without being quoted. Where a consummate actor does not have to act. Where he can just be.

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