In the early stages of researching Want, a book about women’s sexual fantasies, the thing that shocked Gillian Anderson the most was the prevalence of shame. The book, which is based on My Secret Garden, the 1973 classic by Nancy Friday, is a compilation of anonymous letters by women sharing their sexual fantasies, and many of them, observed Anderson, still need permission to voice a desire – not just in public, but, “more shockingly, even in our private worlds”. To her amazement, the 56-year-old discovered she was not herself immune to this inhibition. Called upon to submit her own fantasy, Anderson says: “I kept putting it off and putting it off. I’m not a prude by any stretch and I can say any words out loud. But writing it down? I got really uncomfortable.”
It is not in the spirit of the venture to ask Anderson, who is talking to me on a video call from a hotel in Marrakech, which letter was hers, although the reader will, of course, wonder. The actor is on a few days’ break from filming a western in Canada, a gig for which she is simultaneously grateful – “I’m so fucking lucky” – and also finds herself energetically resenting. “There’s a part of me, when I’m up on the horse, that thinks, fucking hell, I can’t believe I’m having to do all this, with the rain and the wind and all of that.” This is the Anderson we have grown to know and love, the sweary, British incarnation of a formerly strait-laced American actor who, even after she has lived in London for decades and raised her two sons here, we can’t quite believe has chosen us and our accent over them and theirs. For a long time, says Anderson, she was too uptight to let the humour and irreverence of her British side show. But as her 60s approach, she has very much entered what she calls the “fuck it, succeed or fail I’m going to have fun” years of her life, and we are all the better off for it.
