🔗 Share this article

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

A young FBI agent, just starting out, proceeds down a row of prison cells finally encountering Hannibal Lecter's secure glass tank. There he stands, with features like a living skull filled with sinister intent, eerily immobile in his form-fitting prisoner's blue outfit. He stands frozen right up until he throws himself toward the window, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. 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 unrecognized upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in the 1991 thriller back in 1989: he was already established, but a legend was forged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in this new autobiography, from Lugosi's Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, as well as his strictly demanding acting coach his mentor Fettes. There was also a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a difficult topic for the actor, who also describes how his Lear was indirectly affected by painful regret concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who disliked him being away and his drinking habits.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of Hopkins as a toddler 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, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who loathed the Bible-punching hypocrites at the church and avoided expressing his feelings, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who furiously resented the necessity of going begging to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and helped enroll young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. Anthony struggled academically at his new school. Then, during in an English lesson he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that poems, alone, started his career. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, went into acting, and shocking his family, was on stage with the great Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in just ten years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time financial aid was available to attend Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. His dad remained in awe with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: upon requesting his son to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then went into another room and began crying.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he departed the theatrical troupe in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but lucked into a great TV role playing an alleged war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey in cinema, which he liked more to the stage. He stopped drinking in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and so survived into his later years to execute great performances, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in his film The Father – his second Academy Award.

In the latter half of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Certain stories doesn't quite come off. He remembers going out for lunch with his fellow actor in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Sorvino, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the opportunity for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the tough, down-to-earth professional actor who believes it's your duty to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and do the job. Indeed. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Say sorry to her! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Hopkins sounds like a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that went with it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply