Anthony Hopkins' Memoir: We Did OK, Kid – Analysis: A Legend with a Temper

Many consider it the most iconic entrance in film history – yet the actor stays utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, proceeds down the line of detention units until she reaches Hannibal Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. He is positioned, appearing as an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, chillingly static wearing a snug prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen right up until he propels himself at the barrier, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since shown that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling Hopkins' powerful on-screen charisma.

Hopkins was hardly a newcomer upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend was cemented. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his icily exacting Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a difficult topic for Anthony, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who disliked his time away and his alcohol use.

The title originates from an historical picture of Hopkins as a toddler playing on the sand with his father – the boy who perhaps believed he couldn't make it. He was a bewildered, shy and fragile youth from Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a baker and man's man, a plain speaker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and avoided expressing his feelings, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked how they were forced cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations such as Aunt Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into an elite school: “Due to their immense riches!” he raves during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. Then, during in a literature class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, although in those days financial aid was available to attend Rada – an opportunity for actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed by his son's international fame: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then went into another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but fortunately found a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, that he favored compared to stage acting. And he quit booze in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into his later years to achieve remarkable acting, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

During the second part of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more calculated. A few tales doesn't quite come off. He recalls going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Really?

He consistently acts as the grounded, serious thespian who believes it's your duty to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and proceed with the work. Absolutely. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him surely knows the lines about Kent from Cornwall in King Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he always tells the truth!”

He finishes his autobiography with a lengthy appendix composed simply