🔗 Share this article

Many consider it the most memorable entrance in film history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, must walk a row of prison cells until she reaches Dr. Lecter's secure glass tank. The man is present, his face resembling a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still clad in a tight prisoner's blue outfit. He remains motionless before suddenly he lunges at the barrier, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous true-crime documentaries have since demonstrated that genuine criminals tend to be quite dull, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He was not a newcomer upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar emerged. The character of Hannibal was based, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in this new autobiography, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, and on his own strictly demanding drama teacher his mentor Fettes. There was also a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a difficult topic for the actor, who recounts how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage during the 60s to his first wife, who was angered by him being away and drinking.

The title originates from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins on the beach with his dad – the kid who maybe thought he would never do OK. He appeared lost, isolated and sensitive child from Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a pastry chef and a traditional male, a direct communicator who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and avoided expressing his feelings, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who was angered by how they were forced humbly to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts while traveling there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The humility worked, temporarily. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. But one day in an English lesson he had to recite John Masefield's poem titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He convincingly states that verse, by itself, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Notably, he graduated with low prospects, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, although in those days scholarships existed for drama school – a way up for working-class actors. His father was always amazed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Shakespeare's Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, stubborn individual, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but stumbled upon a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career on screen, which he preferred over theater. He gave up alcohol in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it through midlife to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the later sections of the memoir he appears more reserved, more calculated. A few tales aren't entirely successful. He mentions having lunch with his fellow actor in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who sought to advise him his portrayal of Nixon wasn't working. Was this the opportunity for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Not really. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven out of envy. Truly?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who thinks it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and do the job. Quite so. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from the play Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A truthful and simple spirit – he always tells the truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply