Anthony Hopkins' Memoir: We Did OK, Kid – Insights: An Icon with a Temper

It stands as the greatest appearance in movie lore – while he stands without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, must walk the line of detention units arriving at Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. The man is present, appearing as a living skull radiating satanic malice, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue inmate uniform. He remains motionless before suddenly he propels himself toward the window, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. A multitude of true-crime documentaries have since revealed that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer at the time he got that Oscar-winning role in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his rigorously precise acting coach his mentor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a painful subject for Anthony, who further explains how his King Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret about Abigail, his distant daughter from his initial marriage in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and his drinking habits.

The title originates from an historical picture of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in the narrative: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and refused to showing his emotions, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. His father who deeply disliked how they were forced begging to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. But one day in an English lesson he had to recite the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated without much hope, went into acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days there were grants to go to Rada – a path to success for actors from humble backgrounds. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but fortunately found a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which paved the way to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career in movies, that he favored compared to stage acting. And he quit booze back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in The Remains of the Day featuring Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more calculated. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He mentions being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Paul, who wanted to tell him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the moment for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. He tends to concur with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who thinks it's your duty to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and get on with it. Indeed. However, he also describes facing a rude director who'd made a young extra cry: “Say sorry to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a detailed supplement composed simply