🔗 Share this article

Many consider it the most memorable entrance in cinematic history – and he remains utterly motionless.

The FBI trainee, just starting out, navigates the line of detention units finally encountering Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, appearing as a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He stands frozen until the moment he propels himself toward the window, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of documentaries on serial killers have since revealed that real-life murderers tend to be quite dull, far from Anthony Hopkins's powerful on-screen charisma.

He wasn't exactly a newcomer at the time he got the part that won him an Oscar in the iconic film back in 1989: a star wasn't born, but a legend emerged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his icily exacting drama teacher his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension to these scenes; a difficult topic for the actor, who further explains how his King Lear was indirectly affected by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, the estranged daughter from his initial marriage during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who resented his time away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from an historical picture 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 baker and a tough individual, a plain speaker who despised the religious hypocrites at the church and refused to expressing his feelings, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who furiously resented how they were forced humbly to their rich relatives like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and was able to secure the young Anthony into a posh school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. However, one day during an English class he was required to perform the poem by Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other students. He reasonably claims that verse, by itself, propelled him forward. This, and joining the YMCA drama club. Remarkably, he left school with low prospects, pursued acting, and shocking his family, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic in just ten years. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then financial aid was available to attend Rada – a path to success for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe by his son's international fame: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and burst into tears.

Regarding the fiery, stubborn individual, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – to Olivier's profound dismay and criticism – but lucked into a memorable TV character as a suspected war criminal in the series QB VII, which eventually resulted to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he preferred compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and so survived into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, including Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson 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 studied. Certain stories aren't entirely successful. He remembers having lunch by his co-star in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul Sorvino, who wanted to tell him his performance as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the moment for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Not exactly. Anthony appears to agree with the director's criticism of Sorvino as being motivated out of envy. Is that so?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who thinks it's your duty to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Indeed. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who'd made a young extra cry: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be someone who gave up drink yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A classical performer like Hopkins surely knows Cornwall's lines on Kent from the play Lear: “He does not know how to flatter! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Anthony ends his memoir with a detailed supplement composed simply