🔗 Share this article

Many consider it the most iconic appearance in cinematic history – and he remains utterly motionless.

A young FBI agent, a rookie, must walk the line of detention units arriving at the notorious doctor's secure glass tank. There he stands, with features like a skeletal visage exuding demonic evil, unnervingly still wearing a snug blue inmate uniform. He stands frozen before suddenly he propels himself at the barrier, emitting that unforgettable spitting-growling noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since shown that genuine criminals are usually uninteresting, far from Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly an unknown when he landed that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs during the late 80s: he was already established, instead, a superstar was cemented. The character of Hannibal was inspired, Hopkins notes with amusement in his latest book, on the classic Dracula, on Stalin as recalled by his daughter, and also from his strictly demanding acting coach his mentor Fettes. The scenes also contained a paternal-filial aspect to these scenes; a painful subject for the actor, who recounts how his portrayal of Lear was unknowingly shaped by painful regret about Abigail, the estranged daughter from his failed first union during the 60s to his first wife, who resented his time away and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of Anthony as a small child 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 pastry chef and a tough individual, a straightforward talker who loathed the religious hypocrites in their community and refused to showing his emotions, but had a streak of dreamy, sentimental tenderness. Richard Hopkins who was angered by how they were forced humbly to affluent family members including Auntie Patty, who was connected to the politician Nye Bevan and could get young Anthony into an elite school: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he raves during the car ride. “We are all expecting handouts! Total garbage, that's all it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a time. Hopkins was a hopeless student at his new school. However, one day during an English class he was required to perform the verse by John Masefield known as The West Wind – without prior preparation – and his voice awakened; he stunned the teacher and the other students. He says quite plausibly that poetry, on its own, launched him. This, and joining the dramatic society at the YMCA. Remarkably, he left school without much hope, went into acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was on stage alongside Laurence Olivier at the renowned Old Vic in under a decade. He more or less did it on his own, even though back then scholarships existed to attend Rada – an opportunity for working-class actors. His dad remained in awe of Anthony's global success: when he asked Anthony to recite the Yorick speech from Hamlet, Richard listened carefully and then left the room and began crying.

Regarding the fiery, strong-willed son, he left the National Theatre in a moment of anger – much to Olivier's disappointment and disapproval – but lucked into a great TV role as a potential war criminal in Leon Uris's QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in Lynch's The Elephant Man and a luminous film journey on screen, which he liked more over theater. He gave up alcohol back in 1975 once a notorious drinker, and so survived into middle age to achieve remarkable acting, such as Lecter, the servant Stevens in The Remains of the Day alongside Emma Thompson and the senior with memory loss in the movie The Father – his next Oscar win.

In the latter half of the memoir he appears more reserved, more calculated. A few tales fall a bit flat. He remembers being taken out to lunch with his fellow actor in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul, who sought to advise him his performance as Nixon was falling short. Was this the chance for Anthony to gain insight something from the legendary star from Goodfellas? Not exactly. Hopkins seems to go along with Stone's dismissal that Sorvino was acting out of envy. Really?

He often portrays the grounded, serious thespian who believes it is one's responsibility to arrive punctually, know all the crew's names and get on with it. Quite so. Yet he also tells standing up to an unpleasant filmmaker who brought a background actor to tears: “Say sorry to her! And develop some respect. Should you ever act that way in front of me, I'll change the shape of your face! Hopkins sounds like an individual who stopped drinking yet perhaps not the aggression that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's lines on Kent from Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with an extensive addendum composed simply