Anthony Hopkins' Memoir: We Did OK, Kid – Review: A Legend Known for His Fiery Nature

Many consider it the most memorable introduction in cinematic history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, proceeds down a row of prison cells finally encountering the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. The man is present, his face resembling a living skull filled with sinister intent, unnervingly still clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen right up until he throws himself toward the window, emitting that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. Countless real-crime films have since demonstrated that real-life murderers are often very boring, with nothing resembling the actor's commanding screen presence.

He was not a newcomer upon receiving the part that won him an Oscar in The Silence of the Lambs back in 1989: a star wasn't born, instead, a superstar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter drew influence, Hopkins notes with amusement in his recent memoir, from Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and on his own strictly demanding drama teacher Christopher Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension within the narrative; a painful subject for Hopkins, who recounts how his King Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt regarding his daughter Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his initial marriage back in 1966 with Petronella Barker, who was angered by him being away and drinking.

The book's name comes from an historical picture of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, lonely, vulnerable little boy from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the memorable figure in the narrative: a pastry chef and a tough individual, a plain speaker who despised the Bible-punching hypocrites in their community and avoided expressing his feelings, but also exhibited nostalgic, emotional sentimentality. His father who furiously resented the way they had to go begging to affluent family members like Auntie Patty, whose husband knew Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into an elite school: “Because they're bloody rich!” he exclaims in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The humility worked, for a time. Anthony struggled academically in his new institution. However, one day in a literature class he had to recite John Masefield's poem The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he amazed the instructor and the other boys. He reasonably claims that poems, alone, started his career. This, and joining the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and amazingly to his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater in just ten years. He accomplished it mostly independently, though at that time scholarships existed to go to Rada – a way up for performers from modest means. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed by his son's international fame: on asking his son to deliver the Yorick lines from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and wept openly.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he quit the National Theatre company in a fit of pique – much to Olivier's disappointment and displeasure – but fortunately found a great TV role as a suspected war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which eventually resulted to roles such as in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in movies, which he liked more over theater. He stopped drinking back in 1975 after being a heavy drinker, and thus made it into middle age to execute great performances, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson featuring Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of his autobiography his personality becomes more opaque, more deliberate. Certain stories fall a bit flat. He recalls going out for lunch alongside his cast mate in the film Nixon, the esteemed thespian Paul, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't working. Was this the chance for him to absorb something from the legendary star of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as driven due to resentment. Is that so?

He consistently acts as the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes it's your duty to be on time, learn everyone's name on set and do the job. Absolutely. Yet he also tells facing a rude director who caused a young extra to weep: “Apologise to her! And develop some respect. You ever do that again near me, I'll alter your appearance!” He appears to be an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent from Lear: “He cannot flatter, he! A truthful and simple spirit – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a detailed supplement composed simply