Born in Beverley, East Yorkshire, in 1977, Anna Maxwell Martin studied at the University of Liverpool and trained at Lamda. She made her name with a Bafta-winning performance in the BBC’s Bleak House and has since starred in Line of Duty, Motherland and Midwinter of the Spirit, as well as numerous stage productions. She lives in London with her two daughters. Their father, the director Roger Michell, died of a heart attack in 2021. Maxwell Martin is an Action for Children ambassador and stars in their Christmas short film, Santaland. To donate, visit iamsanta.org.uk.
I am five and having my picture taken at school. On my eye is a medical patch. That’s what they did to you in the 1980s if you had a squint. My dad cut my hair using a bowl, which is why it is such a tragedy.
I had a safe and loving childhood, and that’s what I see when I look at that kid. At school, I was bullied a little bit, but it didn’t affect me because I was a happy weirdo and totally comfortable in myself. Being a dweeb fuelled my life.
There’s a real misnomer that actors are extroverts, but they rarely are. I was one of those introverted extroverts; quite shy in social situations but totally singular when it came to my ambitions. I was never concerned with what anyone else was doing, which made me very driven. I would watch Cary Grant films and think: “Whatever that is, I want to do it.” Drama and singing was my only dream.
My parents were scientists, but they fully signed up to help me pursue my ambition. When I was 10, I started entering competitions. I did a local singing heat and got into a national final, so my mum and dad drove me down to London, which would have been a sacrifice – it was expensive and we didn’t have much money. I sang London Is London while dressed as a pearly queen. I didn’t win, but I got to sing in a real theatre. I was so adrenalised on the way home I was pinging off the car walls.
Even as a teenager, I didn’t deviate from being a dweeb. I was desperate to do well at school and always had my hand up – I was that kid that made the “Ask me, ask me” noises in class. I was in all the choirs, orchestras and plays. I had good mates but in my spare time I did drama lessons. As a result, I never really aligned with any cultural tribe. I vividly remember this black and white woollen, dogtooth coat with a velvet collar my mum made me wear as a teenager. She came from a very poor background so her daughter having a proper winter coat was very important to her sense of pride. You can’t wear dogtooth and velvet in a secondary school in Beverley, so I was immediately destroyed by the other kids. Fortunately, their mean words didn’t touch the sides.
Before drama school I went to university to study history. I would have been far too green to go to Lamda straight out of the blocks, because it was overwhelming at first. A massive cringe fest. The whole point is that you throw yourself into every single exercise or performance without self-consciousness. What it’s preparing you for is the hard stuff, like improvised comedy, when none of the crew on set are laughing, and 99% of what you’re saying isn’t funny. Basically Lamda taught me to turn off the part of my brain that needs to be liked for being good. I learned: just get on with it, even if it’s humiliating.
Once I left, I was dedicated to being a very earnest actor, to the extent that I was probably a twat. I took things very seriously because I cared so much about the integrity of whatever performance we were creating, and I believed everyone should put in the same level of effort. That quality probably made me a bit of a tit, whereas I am now a lot more lighthearted.
That being said, when I auditioned for Motherland I was livid. I was horrible. I had reached a bit of a nadir with my career and I was in the early years of motherhood, and exhausted. What I really wanted was to be at home with my kids. As a result I was surly in the room. To my shock, I got a phone call the next day from my agent saying: “They really like you. They want to see you again.” I said: “No. Not going in again. Why do I have to go in again?” They said: “Graham Linehan [who helped develop the pilot] is a bit scared of you.” Thankfully, it turns out that’s what they wanted from my character Julia.
That job was brilliant – the writing, the cast, everything. I’m so proud of what everyone’s doing now. Diane [Morgan] has her own show, and Paul [Ready] is in it with her. Amandaland is fantastic. I do sometimes wonder, though: why is everyone else working together? I even asked Lucy [Punch] recently, “Can I come along to the Amandaland set, just for the day?” But she said no.
I had a great time doing Line of Duty, too. It was a big challenge, like a one-act play. There are still times people confuse me with my character in the show. They shout: “Pat! Pat! You’re a bitch!” Other times it’s: “You’re a cow!” I do get a break at Christmas, though. Instead, I get a lot of: “It’s Christmas Eve, Geoff!” from Motherland.
When Roger died, it was difficult, because I wanted to be with my daughters all the time, but I also needed to work. We were suddenly a single-income, single-parent family and it was extremely hard. Now, when I get offered a job, I ask: “How little time can I be in makeup? Where is it and who else is going to be there?” That last one is the most important. I don’t want to be around anyone who’s a dickhead or an arsehole because I no longer have the bandwidth. Unless, of course, it’s a money job. Otherwise, there is no chance I am going to spend my time with someone who rampages around frothing on set. When it comes to method acting, it’s often men who do it. I always think: “What a luxury for you to go to work, while your wife is at home. You can come home and remain in character, and not help out with the kids.”
My life is not my job – my life is my children. Even though it’s good to show my daughters the side of me who loves to work, I definitely have perspective. I do a lot of advocacy for vulnerable children, so I no longer imbue acting with a sense of status that isn’t appropriate. And the act of juggling motherhood, work and advocacy is never a hardship. It’s one of my skills. I shapeshift quickly; I’m practical and strong – much like that dweeb in the picture.
I feel very grateful for who I was as a kid. I often look at pretty little girls and I think: “Life is harder for you.” When you don’t have beauty, you shape your life exclusively around your hobbies, your interests, your ambitions. There’s nothing else to worry about. If you are born with beauty, you have to maintain it. There’s a sense of identity connected to how you look. I have never felt like that, and I am so glad. It’s given me a release – the total freedom to do the things I love.
