🔗 Share this article

It stands as the greatest introduction in film history – while he stands completely still.

A young FBI agent, just starting out, must walk a row of prison cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's transparent prison. He is positioned, with features like an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless right up until he throws himself against the glass, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Numerous documentaries on serial killers have since demonstrated that actual serial killers tend to be quite dull, with nothing resembling the actor's commanding screen presence.

He was not an unknown upon receiving his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: he was already established, but a legend was cemented. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, the actor happily remembers in this new autobiography, on the classic Dracula, on the Soviet leader according to his daughter's memories, as well as his icily exacting acting coach his instructor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who further explains how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by painful regret regarding his daughter Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s with Petronella Barker, who was angered by his absences and his alcohol use.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a baker and man's man, a straightforward talker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in expressing his feelings, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented the way they had to go cap-in-hand to their wealthy relations including Auntie Patty, whose spouse was acquainted with the famous Bevan and helped enroll Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. He was a poor student at the prestigious school. However, one day in an English lesson he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and his classmates. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, propelled him forward. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school with low prospects, pursued acting, and amazingly to his parents, was performing alongside Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, even though back then scholarships existed for drama school – a way up for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: upon requesting his son to deliver the Yorick lines from the play Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then retreated to another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but lucked into a great TV role as a potential war criminal in the show based on Uris's work, which led indirectly to characters including in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, that he favored compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s after being a heavy drinker, and managed to live into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the servant Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the elderly man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

During the second part of the memoir he appears more reserved, more calculated. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He mentions being taken out to lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the highly regarded performer Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for Anthony to gain insight a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not really. Hopkins seems to go along with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it's your duty to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and do the job. Absolutely. But he also recounts standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologize to that girl! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that came with it. A classical performer like Hopkins must know the lines about Kent from Cornwall from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a lengthy appendix composed simply