🔗 Share this article

Widely regarded as the greatest introduction in film history – while he stands without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, proceeds down a row of prison cells arriving at Dr. Lecter's transparent prison. There he stands, his face resembling an animated death's head exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen before suddenly he propels himself against the glass, making that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since revealed that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like Anthony Hopkins's commanding screen presence.

Hopkins was hardly unrecognized at the time he got his Academy Award-winning part in the 1991 thriller during the late 80s: a star wasn't born, but rather a megastar emerged. His Dr. Lecter was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader as recalled by his daughter, and on his own icily exacting drama teacher Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a painful subject for Hopkins, who also describes how his Lear was unknowingly shaped by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his disastrous first marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and drinking.

The book's name comes from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the child who might have felt he would never do OK. He was a bewildered, lonely, vulnerable little boy raised in Port Talbot, his father was Richard Arthur Hopkins, the standout secondary character in this story: a bread-maker and a traditional male, a plain speaker who despised the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and avoided displaying emotion, yet possessed a touch of wistful, tearful romanticism. His father who deeply disliked the way they had to go begging to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and could get Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Due to their immense riches!” he exclaims while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. But one day during an English class he needed to deliver the poem by Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his talent emerged; he shocked the educator and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, launched him. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then there were grants for drama school – a way up for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from the play Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and wept openly.

Concerning the volatile, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to roles such as in the film The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he liked more to the stage. And he quit booze in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into his later years to execute great performances, such as Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the memoir his character seems more elusive, more deliberate. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He recalls being taken out to lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who intended to inform him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for Hopkins to learn advice from the renowned performer of Scorsese's Goodfellas? Hardly. Anthony appears to agree with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated by jealousy. Truly?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who maintains it's your duty to get there on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Quite so. However, he also describes facing a rude director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And learn some manners. If you ever repeat that in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that came with it. A Shakespearean like him is aware of the lines about Kent from Cornwall from the play Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply