Anthony Hopkins' Memoir: We Did OK, Kid – Insights: An Icon Known for His Fiery Nature

It stands as the greatest introduction in film history – and he remains without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, new to the job, navigates a row of prison cells until she reaches the notorious doctor's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, with features like an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, chillingly static in his form-fitting blue prison jumpsuit. He remains motionless before suddenly he throws himself against the glass, making that extraordinary hissing-slavering sound. Countless true-crime documentaries have since revealed that real-life murderers are usually uninteresting, lacking anything like the actor's captivating film persona.

Hopkins was hardly an unknown upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in the iconic film back in 1989: he was already established, instead, a superstar was forged. His portrayal of Lecter was inspired, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on Joseph Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his rigorously precise acting coach his instructor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a parent-child dynamic to these scenes; a painful subject for Hopkins, who also describes how his portrayal of Lear was subconsciously influenced by an agonised guilt concerning Abigail, the daughter he was separated from from his failed first union in 1966 to Petronella Barker, who was angered by his time away and his alcohol use.

The book's name comes from a vintage war-era photograph of Hopkins as a toddler on the beach with his dad – the boy who perhaps believed he wouldn't succeed. He appeared lost, shy and fragile youth raised in Port Talbot, the child of Richard Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player in this story: a bread-maker and a tough individual, a direct communicator who detested the Bible-punching hypocrites of the chapel and didn't believe in showing his emotions, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. Richard Hopkins who deeply disliked the necessity of going humbly to their wealthy relations like Auntie Patty, who was connected to Nye Bevan and was able to secure young Anthony into a prestigious academy: “Because they're bloody rich!” he shouts in the car on the way there. “We are all expecting handouts! Absolute nonsense, that's the truth!”

The pleading was effective, temporarily. Hopkins was a hopeless student at the prestigious school. However, one day in a literature class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – sight unseen – and his talent emerged; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He convincingly states that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, along with enrolling in the dramatic society at the YMCA. Surprisingly, he exited school a no-hoper, entered the acting world, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting alongside Laurence Olivier at the Old Vic 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 actors from humble backgrounds. His father was always amazed of Anthony's global success: on asking his son to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, Hopkins Sr listened attentively and then went into another room and began crying.

As for the hot-tempered, strong-willed son, he departed the theatrical troupe out of frustration – to Olivier's profound dismay and disapproval – but stumbled upon a great TV role as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which led indirectly to parts like that in David Lynch's The Elephant Man and a thriving starry career in cinema, which he liked more compared to stage acting. He gave up alcohol during the mid-70s having been a hell-raising alcoholic, and thus made it into middle age to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the steward Stevens in the film The Remains of the Day with Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

During the second part of the book his character seems more elusive, more studied. A few tales fall a bit flat. He recalls having lunch alongside his cast mate in Oliver Stone's Nixon, the much-respected actor Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon was falling short. Was this the opportunity for Hopkins to learn a lesson from the famous actor of the Goodfellas fame? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's rejection that Sorvino was acting due to resentment. Is that so?

He repeatedly performs the no-nonsense, practical performer who believes you must to get there on time, know all the crew's names and proceed with the work. Indeed. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologise to her! And acquire some decency. You ever do that again around me, I'll rearrange your face! He appears to be a person who quit alcohol yet perhaps not the aggression that went with it. An actor of his caliber must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! A straightforward and sincere nature – he is compelled to be honest!”

Anthony ends his memoir with an extensive addendum composed simply